


Variations On Happily Ever After

by iriswallpaper



Series: Variations Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blame shifting, Blow Jobs, Cycle of Abuse, Dark John, Dawning self-awareness, Depression, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Emotional Abuse, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, I mean capital-letter ANGST!, Intimate Partner Violence, Intimate partner abuse, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Men Crying, Partner Betrayal, Relationship violence, Rimming, Rollercoaster Relationship, Rough Oral Sex, Self-Blame, Self-Doubt, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock really really loves John, Some case fic but not the main focus, Stockholm Syndrome, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Verbal Abuse, codependent Sherlock, detailed description of buying drugs, detailed description of dental procedure, exaggerated drama, financial abuse, homophobic incident, hurt without comfort, long slow relationship death, love slowly dying, post-HLV, post-Mary, self-love growing, situational depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 65,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is all good, no one is all bad. Relationships that start out good can turn bad. People change. Relationships change over the years. Sometimes changes start so small that they leave both partners confused, and things go bad so slowly it’s easy to ignore warning signs. It’s easy for Sherlock to ignore warnings of John’s growing darkness because he loves - deeply, truly loves - the image of John he carries in his heart. </p><p>This is a tale of heartbreak, heartache, overwhelming love, love slowly dying, intimate partner violence, and dawning self-love. It will not have a happy ending in the usual Johnlock sense but seeks to show that there is more than one type of happy ending. A happy ending is assured.</p><p>READ THE TAGS!!!! Triggers are noted at the beginning of each chapter. Please don't read if it will trigger you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tensions Building

**Author's Note:**

> The classic model of the cycle of intimate partner abuse is: Tensions Building, Incident, Reconciliation, Calm. The cycle repeats, spiraling downward. Sometimes it’s a slow spiral, other times quicker; there’s no clear-cut delineation between the phases of the cycle. Always, it starts slow, with incidents that can _almost_ be explained away by both partners.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Verbal abuse, devaluing, belittling.

The first time it happened Sherlock was stunned. He and John had been a couple for five years and known each other for nearly nine. They’d survived fake suicide, forced separation, John’s disastrous marriage and the tragedy with the baby, three near-death experiences, committing cold-blooded murder, a four-minute exile, Moriarty, and Mycroft’s meddling to finally be together. They’d vowed that while they were not each other’s first love, they would be the last. Sherlock was _happy_. Their relationship was everything he wanted and more than he ever expected. But lately he sensed a growing frustration in John. John seemed short-tempered with Sherlock’s eccentricities – even things he’d always found charming. It came as a shock to Sherlock – and he had _**no idea**_ what to do about it.

 

John was short-tempered when he arrived home from work. He sighed impatiently at the mess Sherlock had left in the kitchen sink. John rolled his eyes when he pointedly asked Sherlock what he’d done that day, and Sherlock replied that he’d spent the day rearranging his Mind Palace. “Perhaps you could rearrange some of your clutter in this flat,” John mumbled under his breath.

A faint alarm sounded in the back of Sherlock’s brain. John sounded more annoyed than usual. There was an edge to his voice that Sherlock had never heard before – it set his teeth on edge. He sucked in a long breath and sprang from the sofa. “I’ll make dinner,” he offered eagerly as he headed into the kitchen.

“Dinner!” John exclaimed, sarcasm dripping in a tone Sherlock had never heard before. “You. Make dinner. Now. On this planet.” John’s face was a dark sneer that Sherlock had never seen before.

“Yes, me, make dinner. You’re tired. Why don’t you go lie down?” Sherlock hated the pleading note that crept into his voice. Where had that come from? Sherlock Holmes didn’t _plead_ with anyone.

John snorted derisively as he headed to the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to make Sherlock flinch. Sherlock slouched against the kitchen counter, hands gripping the edge beside his hips tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He let out a slow breath he didn’t know he’d been holding _What had he done to set John off?_ He spent many days in his Mind Place while John was at work. What was different about today? Sherlock blinked as he looked around their home. Messy, yes, but nothing beyond the normal, daily level of messiness. By Baker Street standards the kitchen was actually clean. No experiments brewing on the table, the sink clear of biologic specimens, and the fridge innocent of human body parts. _What was John’s problem?_

The sound of the shower drifted down the hall. Sherlock decided he’d better hop to if he wanted to have a proper dinner for John underway by the time his shower ended. He found chicken in the freezer then rummaged in the refrigerator drawers for carrots, celery, a red pepper and spinach. He found rice in the cabinet along with hoisin and soy sauces. He breathed a sigh of relief to find everything for a quick stir-fry. He quickly set to chopping, depositing the chicken in a skillet to defrost. As the chicken cooked he started the rice in a saucepan. He added the vegetables to the skillet with enough of the sauces to generously coat the mixture then turned the burners to low. He heard John rustling in the bedroom and decided to try to salvage the evening.

John was seated on the side of the bed, bent over donning a sock. “John, let’s start this evening again. Hello, sexy,” Sherlock said in a sultry whisper. John straightened with a smile. He grasped Sherlock’s waist and pulled him forward. They collapsed onto the bed, Sherlock sprawled on John’s chest, John’s legs still hanging over the edge. John pulled Sherlock down by his shoulders and claimed his mouth in a hard, wet kiss. Sherlock smiled beneath John’s lips. _Maybe the evening was salvageable after all._

Sherlock shifted to pull John fully onto the bed. He hooked his thumb in the waistband of John’s sweatpants and dragged slowly down to reveal a hip bone. Sherlock bent and softly bit the exposed iliac crest then latched on to suck a proper bruise onto tender skin. John gasped and tilted his hip toward Sherlock’s warm, urgent mouth. He tangled his hand in Sherlock’s messy curls, pressing his face more firmly into his hip. Sherlock eased the sweats further down John’s thighs to let his hardening cock spring free. He glanced up at John, a question in his yes. 

“Yes,” John breathed, “Yeah, go ahead.” Sherlock grinned and complied, licking a wet stripe from tip to scrotum then kissing John’s balls softly. He laved each, sucking gently at the sensitive skin until they began to draw up to the base of John’s flushed, hard cock. After a quick lick to John’s perineum, Sherlock propped on an elbow to give himself a better angle to properly see to John’s cock. 

John had groaned and panted through Sherlock’s ministrations so far but now moaned in earnest. “Don’t make me wait.” Sherlock held John’s unfocused gaze as he sucked in the sensitive tip. He closed his eyes and hummed as he swallowed John’s length quickly. John alternated between pants and moans as Sherlock alternated between long, fast sucks and wet, slow swirls. In no time, John squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in warning. Sherlock leaned in even further, swallowing John down, burying his nose in the auburn nest at the base of John’s cock. He gagged on John’s hot spurts, trying to swallow the whole load, come and saliva leaking out the sides of his mouth and coating his chin. John shuddered, groaning while holding Sherlock’s head firmly in place. At last he released his grasp on Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock pulled off with a last suck just as a loud screech split the silence of the flat.

“Fucking hell Sherlock!” John yelled over the blaring smoke alarm as he struggled upright. “What the _fuck_ are you doing, burning down the block? What _stupid_ scheme did you start before coming in here and _forgetting about it_?” 

Sherlock leapt from the bed and bolted down the hall, skidding into the kitchen to find both sauce pan and skillet belching black smoke. He instinctively grabbed the skillet with his right hand, searing his palm and fingers on the red-hot handle. He swore loudly as he dropped it into the sink, turned on the cold tap full blast, then wrapped a towel around his other hand and lifted the sauce pan carefully into the sink. Charcoal-smelling steam billowed as cold water hit the overheated pans. Sherlock held his burned hand under the cold stream, gagging as he inhaled the sickeningly smoky steam. 

Sherlock slid down the cabinet to the cold floor. He cradled his throbbing right hand in his left. Tears streamed from his eyes as he choked on the smoky smell still billowing from the sink. He heard John’s bare feet hurrying down the hallway and lifted his eyes just as John rounded the doorway.

John’s face was a mask of fury, veins standing out in his reddened forehead, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “ _WHAT THE HELL!_ ” he screamed over the din. “What the _fuck_ did you do!”

“I burnt dinner,” Sherlock nearly sobbed, hunched over his smarting hand. The smoke alarm continued to blare at an ear-splitting level. 

John’s anger instantly melted as he crouched before Sherlock, his face showing only concern. He reached for Sherlock’s hands but Sherlock flinched away, hugging his hands even tighter into his hunched body, protecting them behind his drawn-up knees. His head hung low, face shielded under the messy mop of dark curls. 

“Sherlock,” John said tenderly. “I need to shut off the smoke alarm. I’ll be right back. Please, just hold on a second.” John rose and grabbed the towel Sherlock had discarded on the kitchen counter then spun and jerked the freezer open. He grabbed a handful of ice cubes and twisted them in the towel. “Here” he said loud enough to get Sherlock’s attention over the blare as he tossed the bundle. “Catch. Hold this on your hand until I get back.”

John dragged a kitchen chair into the hall and climbed up, tiptoeing to reach the smoke alarm. He pulled it free of the bracket then jerked out the battery and dropped it to the floor as he leapt down. He hurried to the kitchen window and yanked it open, then turned to the sink to shut off the faucet. At last he knelt in front of Sherlock and ran his hands down Sherlock’s arms. “Come on, baby. Let me see to your hand,” John murmured, helping Sherlock to stand and leading him to the sofa.

John took Sherlock’s hand gently between his. The palm was crimson, the skin of each finger beginning to blister. “Jesus, Sherlock,” John hissed, “these are definitely second and third degree burns. Hold the ice for a bit to help the swelling then I’ll use some numbing spray.” He gathered Sherlock in his arms, murmuring soothing endearments. Sherlock burrowed into John’s neck, burying his face while still cradling his hands in front of his body. He breathed deeply, inhaling John’s clean scent to rid his nostrils of the burnt smell. They remained together for long minutes with the ice melting in Sherlock’s hand as John stroked soothing circles on his back. At last John stirred, easing Sherlock away so he could fetch medical supplies.

“Hold out your hand, love,” John coaxed. He took Sherlock’s hand gently and noted that even more blisters were rising on the inside of his fingers. “Your fingers have third degree burns, your palm second. The good news is that hands are very vascular so it all should heal with little scarring. On the other hand, it will be several weeks before you have full use of your right hand. Burns usually heal best when left uncovered but since it’s your dominate hand, I think it best to wrap it at least for tonight. I’m going to use some numbing spray, then burn cream. The spray may sting for a second but the lidocaine will give you some relief.” John quickly dressed and bandaged Sherlock’s hand then led him to the bedroom.

After Sherlock was undressed and tucked in, drowsy and warm, John returned to the kitchen to close the window and set the pans to soak. He slipped into bed beside Sherlock and fit himself against Sherlock’s back, intertwining their legs. Sherlock stirred. “John, I really am sorry. I didn’t intend tonight to be such a drama. I wanted to do something nice for you.” Sherlock’s sleepy rambling went on, “I know I’m not an easy person to live with. I’m so, so sorry for irritating you. I will try harder to be worthy of your love. I’ll try to make you happy.”

“Shhhh,” John replied. “I love you just the way you are. Go to sleep now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and went into the kitchen of his mind palace. He created a new cabinet and pushed the memory of that awful night into it, along with the alarm bell from the back of his mind, then slammed the door and bolted it. 


	2. Walking on eggshells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case turns out badly. It’s not one’s fault but John blames Sherlock. ‘Walking on eggshells’ is a common sign of an abusive relationship. One partner feels they are walking on eggshells around the other partner.
> 
> Trigger warning: Verbal abuse, blaming, devaluing, name calling, belittling, rough handling, situational depression, depression.

It happened again after four weeks of peace and relative normalcy – about as normal as their life could be. Sherlock was able to relax into his life with John, at least most of the time. Things seemed much as before, except Sherlock found himself trying to anticipate John’s reactions to his actions. Because he found emotions difficult to understand, it took an enormous amount of energy for him to constantly anticipate John’s reactions. He no longer spent long nights thinking or playing violin. Instead, he slept longer and longer, usually ten or eleven hours a night. Anything less left him unable to function. He also ate little, finding himself too tired to eat. John noticed, of course, but after so many years of cajoling Sherlock to sleep, he declined to remark that his partner now spent nearly half his time sleeping. He did continue to coax Sherlock to eat but most of the time Sherlock just wasn’t hungry.

 

In was the middle of a long, rainy night that Sherlock’s phone rang repeatedly, awakening John. He answered to find Greg Lestrade in desperate need of Sherlock’s help. He got the details and asked Greg to text the address. John shook Sherlock’s shoulder repeatedly before finally dragging him from a deep sleep. “Wake up, Sherlock. Lestrade needs you on a case. A murdered woman. Her six year old son is missing. The boy was in the house with her. The most logical suspect is the ex-husband – father – but he’s in Lisbon on business. Lestrade needs you to look over the house.” John shoved at Sherlock, trying to rouse him. “Come on! You have a case,” he growled. At last Sherlock rolled to his side, awkwardly getting to his feet.

Twenty minutes later they were on their way in the cab John had called while Sherlock got dressed. Sherlock read John the details that Lestrade had texted and they reviewed the pictures he’d sent, heads bent together over Sherlock’s phone. It felt cozy and secure, huddled together in the cab, the streets nearly deserted in the dead of night. It felt _normal,_ like all the times they’d consulted together before. _Before._ But that was locked away in his mind palace kitchen. _No need to think about it now._

The crime scene, a tidy house in an upscale neighborhood, buzzed with activity despite the late hour. They let themselves through in the police tape and found Lestrade in an upstairs bedroom. A woman’s body sprawled across the king size bed, throat slit from ear to ear, on a blood-soaked navy duvet and formerly crisp white sheets. Sherlock snapped on latex gloves and retrieved his magnifier from his coat pocket. He thoroughly examined the body then prowled the bedroom taking in every detail. Next he examined the missing boy’s room, then the rest of the house. John stood with Lestrade and struggled to stay awake.

 

Finally Sherlock delivered his deductions. “The woman was murdered by her lover. Same dirty wedding ring I’ve pointed out to you before. She let him in after her son had fallen asleep. No sign of forced entry. Something happened to set the lover off. He panicked…this was not premeditated. He used a knife she kept in the bedside table in case of intruders, as you can see by the slightly ajar drawer. A hunting knife, about 9 inches long. The boy heard and came to investigate. By the lack of evidence of struggle, I’d say the murderer was also well known to the boy.” Sherlock paused to tap a few strokes on his phone. “The husband’s brother is the probable lover. He is probably also the boy’s biological father. The mother stayed married for financial reasons. The brother is a not very successful artist. She wanted the lifestyle her successful husband offered but was actually in love with the brother. The brother knew the boy was his son, but the husband didn’t. He took the boy on impulse.” Another pause while Sherlock consulted his phone. “You will most probably find them at the Cabinet Gallery. The brother is a part owner, which gives him access at all hours. Check the basement. Hurry, he’s in a panic and likely to do something stupid.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock an admiring look. “Thanks, mate,” he said warmly. He turned to his staff and issued rapid-fire orders. Sherlock lead John from the room. In the hallway he spoke lowly, “I am concerned about the boy. Something feels off about the lover. I’m missing something.” 

John shook his head. “That was brilliant. You gave them good leads. Let the Yard take it from here.” He sounded sleepy so Sherlock acquiesced and together they headed home to bed.

Mid-afternoon the next day a knock sounded at Baker Street. John quickly descended and opened the door to a grim Lestrade. “Greg,” John said in greeting. Lestrade gave John a small, sad shake of his head. “Oh God, bad news?” John asked.

“Let’s go up, so I can tell you both at once,” Greg answered. They ascended the stairs to find Sherlock perched by his microscope. He looked up sharply, taking in Lestrade’s defeated demeanor. 

“Sherlock, I’ve got bad news,” Greg started gravely. “We found the boy and the murderer. You were right, it was the husband’s brother. We’re waiting on DNA tests to confirm the boy’s paternity. We did find them at the gallery, but too late. The murderer had killed the boy, then himself. He had a hand gun at the gallery, a .22. Small enough that no one heard the shots. It seems he fired the shots just before we arrived…no more than ten minutes. Both were shots to the head so we couldn’t have saved them even if we’d gotten there immediately. But ten minutes earlier and we could have saved that little boy’s life.”

Sherlock froze, his face impassive. He swallowed repeatedly before finally answering in a whisper. “Ten minutes. Are you sure?”

Lestrade ran a hand wearily through his silver hair. “Pretty certain. Forensics was able to place the time of death, but even if not, it was clear by the condition of the bodies when we arrived that he’d just pulled the trigger.”

John let out a long, irritated sigh. “Ok, thanks Greg, for letting us know.” He saw Greg to the door then returned to the kitchen to find Sherlock gazing into space, the familiar small alarm sounding in the back of his mind.

John slammed a fist down onto the table and shouted. “Ten minutes. _TEN MINUTES!_ Fuck’s sake, Sherlock, if you’d have just got up when I woke you, that little boy would be alive now. Ten minutes! You used to bolt out of bed and be dressed in a flash. It took twenty minutes before we were out the door. Twenty minutes! Your dawdling made the difference this time. You poking around meant that little boy died.” John’s face was flushed dark red, his eyes blazing. Fury poured from him in waves, a physical presence in the room. Sherlock quailed before it, shrinking back against the kitchen counter. 

“Christ, Sherlock! That little boy is dead because of _YOU!_ All you do is sleep now days. What happened to you staying up all night? Huh? If you’d been up, a father would be coming home to his son today. Instead you lie in bed half the day so that father is coming home to plan his son’s funeral. Fuck, I don’t even know you anymore. You’re not even the same person.”

Sherlock blanched. He wanted to point out that he didn’t know John any more, either, that he’d changed from the patient, accepting man he loved. He wanted to point out that John used to badger him to sleep more and complain when he stayed up all night. He wanted to point out that no one could have known that ten minutes would make the difference. Instead he remained silent, a tear slipping from the corner of one aqua eye.

The single tear made John even more furious. “OK so now you’re going to cry about it. Sherlock Holmes, _Mister Caring Doesn’t Help._ Well, maybe if you’d cared enough to get out of bed, you wouldn’t have to cry for that little boy now,” he sneered.

John lunged forward, griping Sherlock’s upper arms hard enough to bruise. He pushed his face up into Sherlock’s, spittle flying as he raged. “Fucking hell, Sherlock! _What is wrong with you?_ How could you be so lazy? Surely the great genius would know that lives were on the line!” He shook Sherlock roughly then spun away. “I need some space. Don’t bother me,” John muttered as he climbed the stairs. A loud crack followed as he slammed the door to his former bedroom.

Sherlock slumped onto the stool and hung his head. His mind felt fuzzy, the crushing weight of guilt making it hard for him to think. John was right. He was slower. He felt like he was slogging through wet concrete most days. If he’d sprung out of bed that little boy would be alive now. He buried his face in his hands, biting the heel of his left hand to stop a sob since his right hand was still healing from the burns. He sat until dusk fell without bothering to turn on a light. 

Sherlock heard the upstairs bedroom door open and John’s footfalls descending. He straightened, wiping his hands across his face as John entered the kitchen. John approached slowly and opened his arms wide. Sherlock slumped into the embrace as John held tight.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I was out of line. You didn’t cause that little boy’s death. I know you did all you could. Without you the police would have taken days to find him.” John’s murmured apology was rough, his voice like gravel. _Had John been crying?_ John tipped Sherlock’s face to his with a hand beneath his chin. “Forgive me?” he asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, too shaken to speak. While he found most people’s behavior confusing, he found John’s baffling now. Raging at him one minute, apologizing tenderly the next. _What was going on?_ The alarm had moved to the front of Sherlock’s mind, blaring loudly. Something was _off_ , something was _not right,_ but he couldn’t pinpoint why. John, his biggest supporter, his appreciative audience, had turned into his biggest critic. He nuzzled into John’s warm chest, seeking the man he loved. He wanted _his John_ , the life they had together. Surely the last month was just a blip on the radar? Surely they would be okay?

Sherlock opened the cabinet in his mind place and shoved the alarm firmly to the back. Next he placed the case and John’s reaction in, then slammed the door. This time he double bolted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing thanks to MissDavis and SincerelyChaos for beta'ing this dark tale. Kudos kudos kudos to you!


	3. Bait and Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A period of calm lets Sherlock almost relax - until John descends further into darkness. 
> 
> Bait and switch is common in abusive relationships. The abusive partner uses bait (inducing good feelings) to keep their partner hooked into the relationship, then switches to show their abusive side.
> 
> Trigger warning: Blame shifting, blaming, belittling, property destruction, devaluing, ignoring partner’s needs.

Life with John had been so good for so long that Sherlock had almost forgotten that it had ever been otherwise. John had been conducting light, praising him and generally been _himself._ Sherlock was almost able to completely relax – _almost._ He found himself holding his breath often and didn’t even realize it until he let out the breath with a big sigh. _What was that about?_ Maybe that’s why Sherlock felt so tired most of the time. Bone weary, mentally exhausted and he found himself having vague physical aches and pains. _Aches and pains?_ For god’s sake, he was only 38 years old! Sherlock Holmes didn’t _ache!_ The aches sometimes kept him awake at night and for the most part he needed 10 hours of sleep to be able to function. 

Sherlock sat hunched over a laptop at the desk in the sitting room, chatting online with a ballistics specialist in Merida, Mexico. A gun used in a current case appeared to have been sourced from a Mexican cartel but Sherlock needed expert verification. His fingers flew over the keys, shooting questions to his contact and answering them rapid-fire. He was so engrossed in the conversation that he didn’t notice John come in, hang his coat on the hook before heading into the kitchen and cracking open a beer. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock! SHERLOCK!” John crossed the sitting room to drop into his chair. 

The last, shouted intonation of his name snapped Sherlock back to the present. He looked up at John, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Oh, John. Sorry, I’m chatting with a ballistics expert in Mexico about the gun used in our case. Can you give me a minute?” 

“Yes, yes, whatever. It’s not like I’ve been sneezed on, vomited on, complained to and cursed at for ten hours today. Why would I expect any of your attention now that I’m home?” Lines of weariness and irritation carved John’s forehead. 

Sherlock cut his eyes at John. _Bad day – tired - on his feet most of the day - irritable nurses - hypochondriac patients 68% of the day - shoulder and leg aching - most of all, BORED - John needs some excitement, some fun._ Sherlock cleared his throat. “John, perhaps you would be of more value chatting with a firearms expert than I am. Would you care to join?” 

John snorted. “Sherlock, I had a ten hour tedious workday followed by an hour long Tube commute home. Do you really think I want to _WORK_ now?” 

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “A case, John. Not tedious work, a case!” 

"Oh, a case! A _case!_ Of course that’s much more important than trying to heal people. A case! What a great opportunity for Genius Sherlock Holmes to use his great giant brain.” John’s face was growing flushed, his jaw clenched. 

The cabinet in Sherlock’s mind palace started to quake, the alarm bell muffled behind the double-bolted door. _NO. This is NOT going to happen._

John took a long pull from his beer bottle then held it loosely between his legs. “Shit, Sherlock. Have you ever done a full day’s work in your life? Huh? Stood on your feet for more than half of your waking hours until your legs go numb? Smiled and been pleasant to the general public of idiots because your job depends on it? Kissed ass to keep your boss happy? Of course not! Why would the esteemed Consulting Detective deal with the masses? Right? Mr. Giant Brain wouldn’t want to mingle among the common folk with their common germs. No, only the best for His Highness Genius!” John’s voice rose with every sentence until he was screaming at Sherlock. His free hand was balled into a tight fist. Cords stood out in his neck. 

Sherlock was stunned. “John,” he said gently, “I’m chatting online about a case. I could use your firearms expertise.” 

“Sorry, Sherlock. I’ve used all the expertise I have for today. So why don’t you fuck right off and leave me alone for now?” 

Sherlock blinked, stunned by John’s venom. _What had he done to set John off?_ He was trying to include John in an aspect of a case he’d find interesting. John should be pleased, not angry. If he lived a hundred years, Sherlock would never understand how people thought. He was bewildered by John’s caustic response. 

Sherlock hesitated. “John, you really know more than I do about guns…” 

_**WHAP!** _

Something smashed loudly into the wooden dividers between the window panes, shattering the wood and glass. Sherlock jumped up and stared at the window, stunned. _What happened? Another explosion across the street? A sniper firing into their sitting room?_

“Oh my god, Sherlock, I am so sorry!” John lunged toward Sherlock, nearly knocking him off balance as he wrapped him tightly in his arms. “I am so sorry! I just snapped. I’m tired, and I just snapped.” John babbled as he slid to his knees, taking Sherlock down with him. They knelt together with John’s arms clutching Sherlock tight. Sherlock’s arms hung loosely at his sides. He was still trying to catch up with whatever had happened that had upset John so badly. 

“John? John? Are you all right? What happened?” Sherlock’s tone was one of bewilderment. 

_John released Sherlock and sank back on his haunches. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed. “I am so so sorry! Please, please. I don’t know what came over me.”_

Sherlock shook his head, still bewildered. “John?” He reached out to stroke John’s hair. “It’s okay. I don’t think it’s a bullet. Maybe another explosion or a real gas leak?” 

John raised his tear-streaked face toward Sherlock. “What?” he gasped, confusion clouding his eyes. “Of course there’s no gas leak. I …I … threw my beer bottle at you.” He buried his face in his hands again, ashamed of his actions. 

Sherlock was confused. “You what? You threw a bottle at me?” He noticed then the stream of foam dotting the carpet between John’s chair and the shattered window. “John? You threw something at me?” 

Shock made Sherlock’s stomach roil. He lurched to his feet and staggered down the hall toward the bathroom. He fell through the door, not taking the time to shut it behind him, and threw up on the toilet lid before he could get it open. He crouched, finally clawing the lid open, gagging and retching, holding the cold white porcelain to keep from collapsing. “Oh god,” he moaned between stomach spasms, “Oh god, oh god.” 

John got to his feet and followed Sherlock slowly. He stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock gag and moan, and burned with shame. White-hot guilt for causing Sherlock’s purge tore through his veins. He took a hesitant step into the bathroom, raising a hand to stroke Sherlock’s back. Sherlock flinched away from the touch, retching violently. 

“Sherlock, what do you need? What can I do to help?” John slumped against the doorframe. “Can I help?” 

At last Sherlock sat back against the wall, stomach empty and lips chapped. His eyes were closed, his face flushed and sweaty. “John. I don’t … I don’t know what came over me.” 

John dropped to his knees. He reached out a tentative hand, gripping Sherlock’s hand where it lay limply in his lap. “Sherlock, sweetheart, please. Please forgive me. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t know what I was doing. I just snapped. Please.” 

Sherlock opened eyes full of resignation, despair, hopelessness. He swallowed and asked quietly, “Would you get some water for me?” 

John filled a glass from the bathroom sink. He pressed the glass into Sherlock’s hand, then turned to wet the corner of a hand towel. He knelt again and wiped Sherlock’s face with the damp towel. “Please, love. Please get up. Let me help you.” John helped Sherlock to his feet and steered him toward the bedroom. He laid Sherlock across the bed before climbing in beside him to stroke his face tenderly. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, whispering “Mrs. Hudson will be livid. She’ll add it onto our rent.” 

John attempted a chuckle but it came out as a choked gasp. “No, I’ll explain it to her. I’ll call a repairman in the morning. I’ll get it fixed.” He pulled Sherlock’s face to his shoulder, burying his nose in Sherlock’s curls. “I am so sorry. I promise, that will never happen again. I’m so ashamed. I promise, Sherlock, I will make it up to you.” 

Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of cotton, sweat and sandalwood aftershave. He kept his eyes shut tight, fighting the alarm blaring in his mind palace. The mind palace kitchen lay in ruin from the cabinet’s blowing apart under the force of the alarm. _No, no, John had a bad day. He’s just tired. This isn’t my John. This isn’t the REAL John._ Maybe if he worked at it, he could rebuild the cabinet. Maybe if he made John happy he could switch off that annoying alarm. 

Sherlock pulled John closer as he nibbled up his neck to his earlobe. John shivered as Sherlock sucked gently on the sensitive skin. “John,” he whispered thickly. “I want you tonight. Will you make love to me?” 

John pulled slightly away to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “Sherlock?” he questioned, confused by Sherlock’s ardor. “Do you really want that?” 

“Yes, I do. Show me you love me. Make me feel it.” 

John cocked his head, confused. “Sherlock, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this.” 

“John, please. Please. I need it.” Sherlock’s voice was thick, with passion or tears, he didn’t know. He just knew he needed to feel close to John now, without delay. He fumbled with John’s jeans, trying to free his belt and loosen the buttons. He was pinned by John’s tight embrace. It left little room for his hands to work but he finally succeeded in opening the jeans. He pushed them, along with John’s boxers, below his hips. He took John’s soft cock in his hand, stroking it firmly. Sherlock was nearly frantic, moving urgently against John’s body. “I want you,” he murmured against John’s ear. “Please.” 

John turned his head to capture Sherlock’s mouth in a gentle kiss. Sherlock pressed even more urgently against John’s body, pumping John’s filling cock, rutting against John’s hipbone. Near-whimpers escaped his throat as he squirmed. 

John stroked Sherlock’s back, trying to soothe him and slow things down. He rolled them to their sides, deepening the kiss, his tongue deep in Sherlock’s mouth, laving his palate and exploring the sensitive insides of his lips. He reached between them to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, then his own, pushing both off quickly. He skimmed off his jeans and boxers then unfastened Sherlock’s trousers, pushing both them and his pants past his hips. 

John leaned back to look into Sherlock’s eyes. “What do you want?” he asked gently. “What do you need?” 

“I want you inside me. I need you to fuck me.” 

John flushed. They rarely had intercourse, usually preferring to get each other off orally or manually. It felt too much to John, somehow ‘off’ under the circumstances. 

“Sweetheart, please. Let me suck you off tonight. Let me show you how sorry I am.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight . A tear leaked out and streaked from the corner of his eyes into his dark curls. 

“No, no, love, it’s okay. I want to make you feel good tonight, no pressure.” John slid down Sherlock’s body to settle between his legs. He laced his right hand with Sherlock’s, then grasped Sherlock’s thick, hard cock with his left, taking it as far into his mouth as he could handle. He bobbed slowly, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard. He pumped his hand in rhythm with his mouth, up to meet his lips then down to caress Sherlock’s scrotum. 

Sherlock squirmed and groaned, unable to settle into John’s pace. He ground his teeth in frustration and eventually pushed John away roughly, rolled to his side and curled his knees to his forehead with a growl. 

John sat up, stunned at Sherlock’s abrupt withdrawal. “What is it, love? Did I hurt you?” 

Sherlock bolted to a sitting position facing John. “Did you hurt me? Did you HURT ME?!” His face was flushed crimson, eyes shining with unshed tears. He was suddenly furious – more angry than he could remember having been in years. “Yes you goddamned hurt me! You threw a beer bottle at me! You broke our sitting room window! You frightened me so badly I _vomited!_ YES YOU FUCKING _HURT ME! ”_

Sherlock panted, trying to get control of himself. He didn’t want to wake Mrs. Hudson. Eventually he continued quietly but viciously. “Then, I asked you for what I need. I asked you to _fuck me._ But you couldn’t give me that, could you? It had to be _your way - always._ You didn’t feel like putting in the time and effort, did you John? You wanted to just get me off quickly and go to sleep. Yes, John, you _hurt me._ You’ve done nothing but _hurt me_ since you got home.” 

Sherlock was beyond caring about his loss of control. His eyes bore into John’s, flashing with anger. His nostrils dilated with rapid breathing. His hands shook with his effort to get his emotions under control. 

John dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he muttered miserably. “You’re right, you’re completely right. I didn’t even listen to you, I just did what I wanted. I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock wasn’t appeased. He nearly glowed with fury. “Next time you’re feeling like a son of a bitch, just don’t come home,” he bit out - and meant it. “I will not tolerate such drama. Go to a fucking pub and drink off your bad mood. Don’t you _ever_ come home and take it out on me again.” 

John reached for him. “I won’t, Sherlock. I won’t. I promise, it won’t happen again. I’m sorry, so sorry. Please forgive me.” 

Sherlock shook off John’s hand, still too angry to be touched. He tugged on his dressing gown roughly. “I’m not as tired as I thought.” 

John stayed put on the bed and watched helplessly as Sherlock left the room. 

Sherlock spent the night on the sofa rebuilding the kitchen of his mind palace. He mentally installed a reinforced cabinet and locked the alarm inside, but it wouldn’t quit blaring. Even with the door shut fast, double locks secured, he could hear the alarm clearly. And he didn’t want to. He wanted things to be like they used to be. He wanted to be _happy_ with John. A tear coursed down his cheek as he admitted to himself that things could never be the same. Things had changed – John had changed, and he didn’t know how to be happy with this new John. 


	4. Honeymoon period

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter summary: No one would stay in a relationship if it were all bad. Honeymoon periods keep dying relationships afloat. Periods of peace and calm keep the hope alive.
> 
> Trigger warning: Situational depression.

The next few weeks passed by nearly idyllically. Sherlock received several interesting cases from Lestrade. John helped out around his clinic hours. They staked out suspects, chased criminals, dodged writing up police reports, stayed up late, ate take out and had lots of sex. John came home from his clinic hours tired but generally in good spirits. The cynical edge appeared to have melted away, leaving the John that Sherlock loved.

But Sherlock couldn’t relax. The rebuilt kitchen of his mind palace kept up a steady alarm, even when John was at his most loving. It hummed incessantly as John massaged his feet. It rumbled as John spent over an hour fingering him until he came untouched. It rang when John was at work, it rang when he was at home. Sherlock had a hard time concentrating on anything over the constant sound of that damned alarm. 

He became more and more withdrawn, avoiding people even more than he normally did. He found it easier to distract himself when he was alone. Eventually he raised his response threshold from 7 to 8, declining any cases below an 8 in favor of spending the day alone at home. Eventually even began to avoid Mrs. Hudson and took to locking the door to the flat when he was alone, thus cutting off her casual visits. John noticed this one evening when Sherlock had forgotten to unlock and open the door before John arrived home from his clinic shift.

“Sherlock, the door's locked,” John called, knocking softly. “You OK?” he asked as Sherlock unlocked and opened the door. Sherlock just nodded and turned to the sofa, collapsing gracefully without a word. It was just too much effort to speak. He steepled his hands under his chin, hoping John would assume that he was in his mind palace. In fact, he was just lying blankly, not thinking, not feeling – just numb. He found himself in a numb, nothing state more and more often. He couldn’t even tell what he was feeling when he was in this state. Eventually he heard the shower start and he could hear later John pottering around in the kitchen. 

A touch on his shoulder roused him. He opened his eyes to find John standing over him with a plate in his hand. “Wake up, sleepy head. I’ve made dinner. Come to the table.”

Sherlock blinked, surprised to find he’d actually fallen asleep. He staggered groggily to the kitchen to find the table cleared, set with placemats he didn’t even know they owned. Candles glowed between the place settings. A bottle of red wine breathed between the candles. “John? What’s the occasion? Did I forget our anniversary?”

John was busy plating up pasta at the stove. “No occasion, love,” he answered over his shoulder. “I just wanted to do something nice for you.”

Sherlock _wanted_ to be happy. He sincerely _tried_ to be happy. John was being loving, attentive, the perfect partner. But a current of effort ran underneath that ruined the effect. John was making an effort to control his mood, to be more solicitous of Sherlock and his needs. Sherlock was making an effort to think of John more, to keep John informed of his whereabouts and making an effort to keep their flat clean and tidy. 

All this efforting left both men feeling more tired than usual. They were falling into bed at night with barely a good night kiss, both sound asleep within minutes. John started leaving for the clinic without waking Sherlock. It was just easier to have breakfast alone then quietly get dressed and slip out without having to engage with his partner. Sherlock embraced the chance to sleep in. This left them spending even less time together. 

Sherlock fought the thought that he was relieved to spend less time with John. He refused to acknowledge it, but the thought flitted around the edges of his mind always just out of reach. It left him on-edge and defensive.

Sherlock _loved_ John. Being with John, living with John, having John as his life companion and partner was everything Sherlock never knew he wanted until John came into his life. Sherlock truly believed their life was good. It was good – most of the time. And what were a few isolated incidents, compared to a life rich with affection, sex, companionship and partnership? What would Sherlock’s life be without John? Living in a silent flat, coming home to empty rooms, eating alone. Being alone with his thoughts – that prospect was what frightened Sherlock the most. He loved having John to bounce ideas off of, to be his sounding board, encourager and audience. And if John was being more of a critic more often, well – it was just because John was tired. He was on his feet a lot and he wasn’t getting any younger. His increased hours at the clinic took a toll on him both physically and mentally. Sherlock would just have to find ways to make John’s life a little easier. Because he could not lose John, not after all the hardships they’d been through to finally be together.

Sherlock shook his head to clear out his morose thoughts as he washed his hands before he took a seat at the table. John looked relaxed and happy in the candlelight. He set plates on both placemats and poured wine for each of them.

“To us,” John said, holding out his glass to ping Sherlock’s. Sherlock lifted his glass. He touched it to John’s before sipping. Both men tucked into their dinners, eating in companionable silence for a few minutes.

“The door was locked when I got home,” John eventually began, puzzled. “Why?”

“Just needed some quiet to think, John. It’s nothing important.”

“But we always leave the door open when we’re home. Hasn’t Mrs. Hudson been bringing up your tea?”

“Not sure. If she has she hasn’t knocked”

A frown creased John’s forehead. “Sherlock, is everything alright? Is there something you’re not telling me? Are you under some type of threat from a case?” John spoke kindly but firmly. “Please, don’t hide things from me. If you don’t feel safe when you’re home alone, I want to know why.”

Sherlock replied in a puzzled voice, “Safe? Of course I feel safe. I just don’t feel like being bothered with people. I … I just want to be alone.” A thought dawned on him – he was actually safer when he was alone than when John was home. He quickly shoved it into the locked cabinet in his mind palace. “I’ll leave the door open if that’s what you want.”

“No, no. It’s fine. If you want to lock the door when you’re here during the day then lock it. ‘S fine.”

Sherlock sighed and wondered at how defensive he felt. Really, how stupid it was to get defensive over locking a door when he was alone. But he let it drop. He just wanted to have a nice evening at home with John. John seemed relaxed and happy tonight and Sherlock didn’t want to spoil it.

When they were done with dinner, Sherlock quickly washed the dishes while John read a book in his chair. Then he refilled both glasses and carried his glass and the half-full wine bottle to the bedroom. John followed with his glass. Sherlock took a moment to light candles on their night tables then turned to John. “Do you have anything particular in mind?” he asked in a smoldering voice.

John took Sherlock in his arms to nuzzle his neck. “Mmmmm. Why don’t you take a shower, love?” he murmured.

Sherlock knew what that request was leading to. It was going to be a special night for both of them and John wanted him squeaky-clean all over. He pulled back from John’s embrace and smiled happily. “Give me a minute.”

Both glasses were still full when Sherlock returned with a damp towel wrapped around his hipbones. John sat propped against the pillows in their bed. John’s eyes opened when he heard the whisper of the towel dropping to the floor. He swept his gaze over Sherlock’s body. The corner of his mouth lifted in appreciation. “Hello, gorgeous. Sorry, I dozed off for a minute. What a vision to wake up to. Come here.” John lifted the covers for Sherlock to slip in beside him. He captured Sherlock’s jaw in a caress, raising his lips for a kiss. They settled against the pillows, making minute adjustments to fit together in ways that they’d adopted over the years. 

Their kiss was warm and familiar and Sherlock felt the tension he’d carried for weeks abate. As the tension melted, his body melted against John’s until there was no space between them. Their tongues traded caresses, first in Sherlock’s mouth, then in Johns. Sherlock felt John’s excitement growing under his hip and his own answering against John’s thigh. It was so _good,_ so _right. This_ was the affection they’d felt long before they’d ever expressed it. _This_ was the love they’d built once they finally declared that affection. _This_ was the years of partnership, the little ways they found to live together. _This_ was the holidays together and years of working together. Love welled in Sherlock’s chest as he felt the weight of their years together in their caress, nearly choking him with its warmth. He felt like he was drowning in love – love was pounding in his veins, filling his lungs, becoming his very skin. _This. This_ was what he had with John. _This was real._ This was the _real_ John and Sherlock tucked away any thought of the other John, the one who was prickly and caused the alarm in his mind palace to go off.

John pressed him back with a hand to his shoulder and a knee between his legs. He draped himself over Sherlock’s long body and captured his lips again. John buried his hands in Sherlock’s curls, caressing his scalp with soft fingertips. His kisses left Sherlock breathless and hushed, his arousal too much for even a sigh. 

At last John raised his head. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John looking at him intently. “Turn over, love?” John asked, voice thick with arousal. Sherlock nodded eagerly and rolled away from John. He settled with his arms folded beneath him and legs splayed wide. John pressed his chest to Sherlock’s back. He moaned softly into Sherlock’s ear as he licked its outline then moved to bite gently at the earlobe. Sherlock shivered and gasped under John’s attentions. He felt John’s cock hard against his lower back, the weight and warmth of John along his spine, the muscles of John’s thighs gripping his where they straddled and his heart ached with how much he loved this man. _This. This was real._

A warm wet trail snaked down Sherlock’s spine, alternating kisses and nips, until at last John nudged Sherlock’s legs wider apart to settle between. He lifted Sherlock’s hips with a warm hand on each side. Sherlock folded his knees under his thighs and felt so gloriously open, so on display for the man he loved. _This._ He felt a droplet of precome wet his cockhead, then dribble down to the sheets below. Another bead immediately took its place as he anticipated John’s next move. 

“Gorgeous, so gorgeous,” John breathed against the tender skin of Sherlock’s lower back as he moved his hands from Sherlock’s hips to stroke his buttocks then lowering his hands to the muscles of Sherlock’s lean thighs. Sherlock pressed his forehead into the mattress and panted in anticipation. He wanted to whimper, to beg for John’s mouth, but he held silent and waited.

Sherlock felt the mattress shift as John settled back. John’s warm hand finally stroked his cleft before it went even lower lower, to the sensitive skin behind his bollocks. The skin tightened and he moaned as John cupped and fondled each of his bollocks in turn. Precome dribbled from his flushed prick, wetting the sheets below him, but he hardly noticed. He cried out as he felt the heat and wetness of John’s mouth on his entrance, lapping, circling, tongue alternating with fingertips to work him open. _This._ John continued his attention until Sherlock’s thighs shook and he gasped “Please…John…please” in an endless litany.

John slicked his hand and stoked his own aching cock slowly, needing the relief to hold off his orgasm. His hand stilled as he lined up his slick shaft, pressing slowly into the spit-slick heat of Sherlock’s body. A groan of pure pleasur ripped from his throat as he held Sherlock’s hips and pushed deeper. He slid his hands under Sherlock’s armpits, lifting him to his knees. John held him tightly with one arm around his chest and the other around his taut abdomen. Sherlock’ head fell back onto John’s shoulder, neck arched sharply. John laved the long, ropy white column, sucking, licking, kissing as far up its length as he could reach. 

_This – this – this is real._ Sherlock was on a plateau beyond pleasure, beyond feelings. He existed in pure love even as he felt the hard stab of John’s prick in and out, in and out in exquisite pleasure/pain. A kaleidoscope of color shifted on the backside of his closed eyelids – orange, yellow, white in patterns that shifted with John’s rhythm. He felt John’s hands warm and strong on his chest and belly, the searing heat of John’s body against his back, John’s warm wet mouth against his neck. It should have been too much: to be contorted sharply backward in an awkward arch – to have his neck angled sharp enough to restrict his breath – to be off balance on his wide spread knees – to be so completely under the control of another person. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t because it was _John._ And _this_ is what they did. _This_ is what they’d built over the years, the giving and receiving in their bed.

The sounds falling from Sherlock’s mouth were nearly obscene – wordless syllables of pure pleasure beyond emotion. Tears fell hot and unchecked, sliding over his cheeks to drip from his jaw and streak his chest. He wasn’t crying – it was more than that; a water offering to ancient gods of life itself. 

John kept a steady rhythm, stroking shallow and slow, enough to prolong their pleasure but not enough to tip either of them over the edge of orgasm. He moved his still-slick hand from Sherlock’s stomach to the scratchy hair at the base of his cock, running his fingers through the thick, dark mat, then reached lower to gently cup his bollocks briefly, before he filled his hand with Sherlock’s thick, hard, leaking cock. _This._ This was _right,_ and _true,_ and _now,_ and Sherlock sobbed his release as it pulsed over John’s hand. He slumped into John’s embrace, no longer able to hold himself erect. John lowered him gently to the bed without breaking contact then adjusted his legs in order to be able to thrust deeper. Five, six thrusts and John groaned with release, stilling and shuddering before collapsing beside Sherlock to pull him into a tight embrace.

Both men were silent for long minutes, sensing that they’d shared something sacred. Sherlock’s silent tears continued to wet John’s shoulder. He was glad John understood without asking, because he could not have put into words reasons for his tears. He felt _happy,_ whole, safe, hopeful, _loved,_ and very, very exhausted. “I love you … _love_ you … love _you,”_ he breathed into John’s skin.

Eventually John groped for the towel Sherlock dropped on the floor earlier. “Ease back a little, love,” John mumbled sleepily and Sherlock did. John cleaned their mess as best he could reach. He tossed the towel in the direction of the ensuite. 

Sherlock was silent, content in their embrace. John fell asleep immediately but Sherlock stayed up for several hours, tucking memories of the evening away in his mind palace. He checked the mind palace kitchen and found it blessedly quiet.


	5. Overreacting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes an honest mistake. John overreacts. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Blame shifting, verbal abuse, physical assault, intimate partner abuse, devaluing, financial abuse, situational depression.

“Sherlock,” John said in his ‘I’m making an effort to be calm voice.’ “Did you withdraw five hundred pounds from our joint account and not write it in the checkbook?”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He’d been reclining on the sofa, eyes shut and hands steepled under his chin, thinking. “No,” he answered drolly, sure that he had not.

“Sherlock, please sit up,” John’s voice sounded a little more irritated, leaning toward his ‘I’m making a **monumental** effort to not lose my temper’ voice. 

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the sofa. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and propped his chin on his interlaced fingers. “There, John, I’m sitting up, and I still haven’t taken out five hundred pounds from our account and not written it down.” His tone implied an eye-roll, but he suppressed the urge to actually follow through with rolling his eyes.

“Well then, someone used your debit card to withdraw five hundred pounds last Monday,” John bit out tersely.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as a cold dread spread through his body. Last Monday he’d used **his** debit card – the one tied to his own, separate account – to withdraw cash to grease the palms of his homeless network. He’d needed information and needed it quickly, so he’d handed out rather large sums to many of his most trusted network members. _Oh god, did I use the wrong card?_

He swallowed loudly. “John, I withdrew cash last Monday. I thought I was using my own debit card, the one tied to my account. I’m sorry if I confused the cards and used our joint account. It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t intend to use our joint money for my business expenses.”

John sighed, clearly irritated. “Business expenses?” Sarcasm dripped from his words.

“Homeless network,” was all Sherlock needed to say. John understood immediately.

“So, you mixed up your debit cards, right?” John asked, now nearly shouting. “Sherlock Holmes, Mr. I-Never-Miss-A-Detail, mixed up two cards in his wallet. I realize it takes a monumental amount of energy to glance at a debit card before using it. I can certainly understand how daunting it is, telling one card from another.”

Sherlock winced at John’s mocking tone. He opened his mouth to reply but John held up a hand.

“Don’t. Just don’t. There is absolutely no excuse for this. None. You should be able to tell one debit card from another.” John was truly shouting now. “Know what your little mix-up did? It caused our rent check to Mrs. Hudson to bounce. The rent check was returned Non Sufficient Funds. Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for both me and Mrs. Hudson? She asked me about it when I got in the door from work. I had no idea what to tell her. So Sherlock, your little mix up didn’t just affect me. You embarrassed Mrs. Hudson.” John slammed his fist on the desk to punctuate his last words.

“I’m sorry, John. It was an honest mistake. I didn’t realize I was using our joint account. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” Sherlock hated the pleading note that had crept into this voice.

“Damned straight it won’t happen again,” John shouted. He leaned over, right into Sherlock’s face and yelled, “Your card, Sherlock. Give it to me. Now.”

Sherlock shook his head. “John, John. It won’t happen again, I promise.” Sherlock was getting angry now and it showed in his voice. “I refuse to let you treat me like a child. I can be trusted with a debit card.”

“Trusted! Trusted! You really proved that, didn’t you.” John’s face was crimson, his voice loud enough to shake the windowpanes in their frames. “The card, Sherlock, now. You don’t get to carry a card for our account until you can prove to me you can tell one card from another.”

Sherlock was furious now. “I. Will. Not. Be. Treated. Like. A. Child,” he spit, over enunciating each word. “I will draw a symbol on the joint card with permanent marker, or put a sticker on it if that will make you happy. But I. Will. Not. Give it to you.” He leaped up while he was talking to tower over John, hunching toward him menacingly. “Maybe it’s time for you to get into the 21st century and use online banking. Not even my _grandmother_ uses a checkbook these days! If you’d checked the account online before giving Mrs. Hudson the check, I could have cleared up this misunderstanding immediately. I would have deposited money before you gave the check to her.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm, spun him around and shoved him to the floor face-down. He dropped hard on Sherlock’s back, wrenching his wrist between his shoulder blades, knocking the breath out of him. John straddled Sherlock’s waist, leaning over to growl in his ear. “You will give me that goddamned debit card, or I will rip the wallet out of your trousers and take it.”

“No!” Sherlock growled, “You won’t. Get off my fucking back.”

John gripped Sherlock’s hair with his other hand. He wrenched Sherlock’s head back then drove it down onto the floor. A crack, loud as a shot, rang out when Sherlock’s cheekbone connected with the hard wood. Sherlock’s ears rang with the impact. 

Blood bloomed under the impact site. John sat back on his heels, gasping as Sherlock turned over with John still straddling his thighs. Blood poured from Sherlock’s cheek unchecked, pooling in his ear and running into his hair. His chest heaved as he lifted a hand to his face. He gasped when he drew it away and saw his bloody palm. John climbed off to kneel beside him. Sherlock sat up uncertainly, a bewildered look on his face.

“John?” Sherlock asked, his voice sounding dazed. “Did you just…” he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, unable to give a name to what had just happened; to say it out loud would make it true.

“Oh god Sherlock, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … oh my god … let me get you … I’m so sorry … I’m so … so ashamed ….” John seemed unable to finish a thought, sputtering incoherently.

Sherlock just continued to stare at him silently. His bloody hand lie limply in his lap andhis cheek bled freely.

“Sherlock let me get a towel,” John at last gasped.

Sherlock blinked several times and rose shakily to his feet. He stood with hands hanging limply at his sides, unsure what to do next.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry … forgive me … I shouldn’t have gotten so angry,” Jon still knelt on the floor, babbling. “I just get so mad when you do stupid things. You embarrassed me so badly in front of Mrs. Hudson. I was so angry that were so absent minded.”

“I’ll withdraw money from my account tomorrow. I’ll give Mrs. Hudson cash for the rent, plus enough to cover the NSF fees. I’ll put some money in our joint account to cover the NSF fees on our end.” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse and ragged.

“Damned right you will,” John said darkly, mood changing in the blink of an eye. “Now give me your fucking card so we can end this and get the mess cleaned up.”

Sherlock stared, unable to believe what John had just said. “No. That account is our joint property and I have every legal right to access it as much as you do.” Blood still flowed from his battered cheek.

John laughed bitterly. “Legal right!” he shouted. “Legal right! That’s right, Sherlock, you have every legal right to run us into financial ruin by your _stupid fucking_ actions.”

Sherlock could not listen to another word in John’s hateful tone. He stumbled toward the door blindly, flung it open and bolted out. He rushed down the stairs and out the front door before John could even get to his feet.

Sherlock ran, sprinting thorough the twilight, blindly covering block after block, running unseeing through the city. It was drizzling but he didn’t notice. His chest began to burn but he continued sprinting, tears flowing unchecked, breath coming in great sobs. He ran and ran with feet pounding the pavement loudly, past shopkeepers locking up for the night, past pedestrians who turned to watch him in puzzlement. When at last he could run no more, he bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath as he sobbed. 

Finally he straightened and looked around in confusion. He’d run blindly, not noting the direction he’d gone, and nothing looked familiar. He reached for his phone to pull up GPS but his pocket empty. He flet his wallet in the other pocket but he’d fled without his phone or keys. At least he had some cash in his wallet, his own debit card, and the joint debit card that had caused such drama. He decided to turn around and walk back the last direction he’d taken. 

He found a 24 hour café after a few blocks. He went in, ordered coffee, and took a booth at the back. The clerk ( _university student (obviously)– living away from home sharing a flat with five other students – working two jobs, here at night and at a daycare center during the day – sleeping with her Physics professor – won’t matter because she’ll still fail the class_ ) gave him a wary look and handed the paper coffee cup over hesitantly. _I must look a fright._ He checked the clock over the counter and found he’d been running blindly for over an hour. He asked the clerk for the street name and was surprised to find he was over five miles from Baker Street.

Cold, wet, exhausted, shaking, clothing soaked through and clinging to him uncomfortably, Sherlock sipped the coffee and wrapped his hands around the paper cup to warm them. After he finished he headed to the men’s room to clean up. The sight in the mirror shocked him. His hair was streaming, hanging in limp clumps around his parchment-pale face. A large contusion bloomed on his right cheekbone, still seeping bright red blood and a bruise was beginning to form, spreading out in reds and purples around from the broken skin. His navy blue shirt clung to his torso obscenely and dripped from the cuffs. His gray wool trousers were ruined, sopping wet and spattered with mud. His black dress shoes fared no better, muddy and soaked through. He realized he’d run five miles in thin-soled dress shoes and thin black silk socks. _I’ll have both blisters and shin splints in the morning._ He cleaned up as best he could with the flimsy paper towels the men’s room provided. He washed his face and hands to remove the blood and used a bit of toilet tissue to staunch the bleeding. 

He spent a moment building a map of the best route back to Baker Street in his mind. If he used all the shortcuts he knew, he could walk home in a little over an hour and a half. He had little hope of a cab stopping for him in his disheveled state and he’d had enough of going on the Tube in such a state. He left the café and started walking; he tried unsuccessfully to stop cabs as they sped by. The drizzle turned into heavier rain as he trudged along, head down and miserable.

At long last he arrived home. He was grateful John had at least left the door unlocked. It would have been embarrassing to rap at Mrs. Hudson’s window to wake her to let him in. He climbed the stairs wearily and found the flat dark. John must surely have gone to bed. It was past 2 am – and John was a sensible man. Sherlock headed straight to the bathroom and peeled off his sodden clothing, tossing it all into the bathtub to deal with in the morning. He toweled off quickly and went through to the bedroom quietly so as not to wake John; the bed was empty. 

He pulled on warm pajamas and his plaid dressing gown (the warmest one), distressed that John had decided to sleep upstairs. No matter how bad things got they always slept in the same bed. But now John was asleep in his old room. Sherlock hung his head, convinced he should have just given the debit card over. It was a small thing compared to the life he had with John – right? Was he being childish to insist on keeping it? He had overdrawn their account by accident. _Maybe John had a point._

Even though he was drooping with exhaustion, Sherlock knew he couldn’t sleep alone in the big bed. He wearily headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea to stop his shivers then carried the steaming cup to his chair without bothering to turn on a light. He nearly spilled it when he sat down and noticed John sitting quietly in his own chair.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. I am so ashamed. I sincerely did not mean to hurt you. Can you ever forgive me?” He fell from the chair to his knees, kneeling beside Sherlock’s chair, navy blue eyes searching Sherlock’s face in the dim glow coming in the open curtains. “I was so worried. I didn’t know where you’d gone and you didn’t have your phone. I’ve been sitting here nearly mad with worry. Please, please forgive me.” The last words came out wetly, nearly a sob.

Sherlock looked down at John and all he felt was numbness. He was exhausted both mentally and physically. Every cell of his body felt cold and wrung out, but he was relieved that John had not retreated to his old room. He lifted a hand to John’s shoulder, pulling him up, and he rose too. He laced his fingers with John’s and silently led him to the bedroom. They climbed into bed and John pulled the covers over them. 

Sherlock still had not said a word. He nestled his head into John’s good shoulder. John smoothed the still-damp hair away from his forehead, kissing his hairline tenderly. “Please, Sherlock, can you say you forgive me?” John pleaded.

Sherlock sighed, resigned. “I forgive you John” he murmured mechanically as he drifted off to sleep.

***x***x***

Sherlock woke the next morning with a terrible headache. His shins were on fire, every muscle in his legs ached and both heels bore massive blisters. John had already left for the clinic. He felt better after a hot shower and coffee and headed out to take care of the banking he’d promised John the night before.

He rapped Mrs. Hudson’s door, hoping to just hand her the envelope of cash and make a quick exit. She opened the door with a sympathetic, “Oh, Sherlock,” and pulled him down into a hug. She insisted he come in for tea and a bite to eat. He remembered that he’d skipped dinner in the drama of the prior evening so he gratefully followed her into her kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson fixed sandwiches as the tea brewed. She placed them in front of Sherlock, saying “Eat, young man. You’re too skinny,” as she took the seat across from him. Sherlock gratefully tucked in to the first sandwich while avoiding Mrs. Hudson’s concerned gaze. 

“Sherlock, I’m not your mother, so you don’t have to tell me anything, but I couldn’t help hearing the terrible row you and John had last evening.” The concern in her voice nearly undid Sherlock, making it difficult to swallow the sandwich around the lump in his throat. “I worry about you. John can be so prickly. Lately it seems he … well, he flies off the handle more and more. Mind you, I’m not eavesdropping, and I can’t hear the details, but I do hear his voice when he raises it. And nowadays I seem to hear it more and more.”

Sherlock swallowed the bite of sandwich with difficulty, washing it down with still-too-hot tea. He kept his eyes on the table, unable to face the warm sympathy in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes. “John was upset that I’d withdrawn money from our account without writing it in the checkbook. It was my fault the rent check was returned. I mixed up my debit card with the one for our joint account. It was all a big mistake.” His voice wavered on the last sentence.

Mrs. Hudson came around the table to fold him in a warm embrace. “Sherlock, it’s okay. I knew you boys were good for the rent. I wasn’t upset in the least.” She squeezed his shoulders tightly.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “John was. He was very upset. He said I’d embarrassed him, and you.” His voice was muffled against Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder.

“Oh Sherlock, surely you know something like a returned check wouldn’t embarrass me!” she chided. Sherlock nodded in the embrace. She released him, returned to her seat and picked up her teacup. “Don’t you worry, dear. If there’s ever an issue in the future, I’ll be sure to ask you and not John.” She patted his hand where it rested on the table. Sherlock found he still couldn’t face her gaze. He mumbled his thanks and gave her a quick hug on the way out.

While climbing the stairs, Sherlock realized why his head hurt so badly. The alarm in his mind palace was as loud as a fire alarm. The shrill pitch filled his ears suddenly, causing him to stagger through the door and collapse on the sofa. He closed his eyes and retreated to his mind palace kitchen. The door to the cabinet that housed the alarm was wide hanging open, all three locks blown off. He spent the rest of the morning building a steel-reinforced locker in the kitchen, quadruple-bolted to hold the alarm.  
 


	6. Unbearable expressions of concern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Victims of intimate partner abuse have a hard time accepting help. Offers of concern from family and friends are often met with resistance. The abused partner often can’t see themselves as a victim or face the fact that their relationship is failing. Friends and family feel helpless in the situation but can’t give help where it’s not accepted.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Codependency, situational depression, denial, rationalization

Mycroft sat across from Sherlock in John’s chair. The tea service on the table at his elbow was untouched. He surveyed his brother with a concerned gaze. Sherlock was heroin-thin – skinnier than Mycroft had seen him since he’d gotten clean. But his eyes were clear, if shuttered. Neither his eyes, nor his complexion, nor his arms showed any signs of drug use, but Sherlock was obviously underfed. His hair was untrimmed, too long even for Sherlock’s preferred ‘tragic romantic hero’ look. It was clean but unkept – obviously Sherlock had not used product in it after his shower. Instead of the even waves he favored, his head was now full of near-frizz. He was wearing a ratty t-shirt with thin pajama bottoms covered by his tattered blue dressing gown, but that was nothing new. Sherlock only ever bothered to dress if he was going out. His feet were bare and even they were skinny. Dark shadows ringed his eyes.

What bothered Mycroft the most about his brother’s appearance was the large green-blue-purple bruise with a scab in the center on Sherlock’s cheekbone. Mycroft knew for a fact that Sherlock had not accepted any cases from Lestrade for several weeks. The bruise was obviously only a few days old. No criminal suspect put it there; he hadn’t chased anyone through London’s alleyways for over two weeks. Mycroft knew, or at least strongly suspected, who had put it there. He spoke at last, his tone warm and kind.

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Sherlock sounded bored.

“We need to talk about Doctor Watson.” Mycroft tried to keep his tone level and nonthreatening.

“Doctor Watson? What happened to ‘John’?” Sherlock’s tone was still flat, disinterested.

“I will not call the man who put that horrendous bruise on my brother’s face by his Christian name.”

“What makes you think John put this bruise on my face?” Sherlock’s voice still sounded mechanical.

Mycroft sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. From this angle he had to look up at Sherlock, which was odd. He was accustomed to looking down on his shorter, younger brother. “Sherlock, I have noticed a marked change in Doctor Watson’s behavior. _He_ has changed. He is shorter-tempered, more irritable than even his normal level of contentiousness. It’s become quite marked, this change in his attitude and behavior.” Mycroft continued to hold Sherlock’s eyes. He hoped his gaze conveyed the love and concern he felt.

Sherlock sighed and looked away. “There’s nothing to discuss. John is my partner, my friend.”

Mycroft reached a hand across the space between them and squeezed Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock looked down at Mycroft’s hand, then up at his face. Mycroft’s voice was full of concern. “Sherlock, you are my brother and I love you. I do not like to see you suffer. Please, let me help you.”

A tear ran down Sherlock’s cheek and dripped off his jaw, making a wet spot on Mycroft’s shirt cuff. Sherlock stared at it. After a few seconds he whispered, “There’s no help to be had. I’m fine.” Sherlock stood abruptly and strode the short distance to the sofa. He flopped down heavily facing the sofa’s back, curled his knees under his dressing gown and closed his eyes. “Go away, Mycroft,” he mumbled.

Mycroft felt his heart was literally breaking. He had a pain behind his sternum that he’d never felt before. To see his brilliant, strong, dazzling brother in this state was unbearable. He _hated_ John in that moment. He thought of the things he could do, with impunity, to the person who had hurt his brother – how he could make John suffer even more than he’d made Sherlock suffer and how it would give him great satisfaction. His throat constricted and his eyes misted. “Please, Sherlock. Let me do something to help. I can’t bear to see you like this.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “You want to do something? How about leaving me alone?” He turned his face back toward the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

Mycroft sighed. He stood, rounded the coffee table and looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock brother ignored him. Mycroft bent slightly and squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Please know, brother, I am here for you. You can call me any time and I will be here to help with anything, anything you need. I do love you.”

Sherlock merely sniffed in reply. Mycroft let his hand rest on his brother’s shoulder another moment, then stood and straightened his jacket. He turned toward the door but paused midway through it. Sherlock had whispered “Thank you,” so low Mycroft almost missed it. Mycroft smiled sadly then continued on his way. 

***x***x***

 

“You know you can tell me,” Molly said levelly, eyes meeting Sherlock’s then darting away.

“What? What can I tell you?” Sherlock asked, perplexed.

“Anything. Just, you know … anything.” Molly gestured toward her cheek, then brushed her hair off her forehead like that was her intent all along.

“Mmmm.” Sherlock made a noncommittal sound. His hand drifted to brush the fading bruise on his cheekbone. He’d honestly forgotten it was there.

“It’s just. You know. You know I can … can help.” Molly shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. Then she continued in a rush, “Listen, Sherlock. I know what it’s like. Really I do. I had a boyfriend once. He did things … you know, he got a physical sometimes. It’s hard. Really hard without someone to talk to. If it weren’t for my friend Anne I might have married him. What a mistake that would have been. Anne was always there to listen.” 

Molly looked down at her hands, clasping and unclasping furiously. She blushed and bit her lip. “She helped me out. I mean, get out. I got out, away from him, with Anne’s help. Anyway, I am your friend. I’ve been there.”

Sherlock looked down at the microscope, studiously avoiding Molly’s concerned gaze. “Thank you Molly. I know you’re my friend. If I need to discuss anything, I will certainly keep you in mind.”

Sherlock’s voice cracked on the final words. He was tempted, really tempted to tell Molly everything. She was his true friend; he knew that. She was one of the most important people in Sherlock’s life. It would be so easy to tell her. Molly would put her arms around Sherlock and pull his head down to her shoulder. He’d be able to relax, to tell her his horrible secret, to cry on her thin shoulder. Molly would pat his back and tell him it would be okay. He closed his eyes, picturing the scene in his mind. _Tempting - so tempting._

But then what? What would he do? Go home to Baker Street and tell John to leave? Pack his things and move out instead? His heart hammered in panic at the thought. No, never that. He _loved_ John. Truly, truly loved John. He couldn’t live without him. His breath came faster, near hyperventilating, at the thought of home without John.

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, concerned at his near-panting, “You okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s okay, really. No pressure. Just know I’m here. I can help.” She reached out and laid a small, slim hand on his forearm and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock nodded without looking up. “Yes. It’s okay. Thank you, Molly. I do appreciate your concern.” He picked up a slide and a pipette. He concentrated on carefully applying a drop of saline to the slide, appearing engrossed in the routine task. Molly watched him silently for a few moments then turned and went through the door to the morgue.

When the door swung shut, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. He dropped onto a stool, leaned his elbows on the table and buried his hands in his hair. His head slumped, held up by the tension of his fingers tangled in the curls. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut. A single tear escaped anyway. He sat up and angrily brushed it away. _**I’m fine.** I’m fine. Everything is okay._ If he was so fine, then why was his stomach in knots? Why was Molly’s kindness nearly impossible to bear?

And why wouldn’t that fucking alarm in his mind shut off?

***x***x***

“Sherlock, dear, do you have a minute?” Mrs. Hudson fluttered on the landing, just outside the door to 221b. Sherlock winced when he remembered the days of her easy coming and going, popping up several times a day with a tea tray, the post, or even just to say hello. He missed those days. He never thought it at the time – that he’d miss Mrs. Hudson’s prattle. He used to complain about it to John, but now he realized how comforting it was to have her puttering about the place.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson. Please come in.” Sherlock winced again at inviting her into the flat where once she’d come and gone like a proxy mother.

She bore a tray with tea and slices of banana bread. “I had some bananas going over ripe, and a few pecans, so I thought I’d make some nice fresh banana bread. I know how you always like it, dear. I thought we’d share a morning snack, like we used to.” Her tone was so kind, so warm and loving. Sherlock cleared a spot on the coffee table, piling papers on one end to make a spot for the tray. Mrs. Hudson took a seat at one end of the sofa, Sherlock at the other. She poured his tea and handed him a plate with two thick slices of banana bread already spread with butter.

“There now, isn’t this nice? We can have a nice chat while we breakfast. I miss you, dear. I don’t see as much of you as I used to.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes crinkled when she smiled. Sherlock noticed her voice sounded a little reedier than normal. _Stress? Emotional distress?_

Sherlock ate in silence, enjoying the company. Mrs. Hudson chatted about her sister, her card club, news from acquaintances in Miami she still kept in touch with. Her voice was soothing and Sherlock relaxed more than he had in weeks.

“Dear, there is something I wanted to bring up.” Mrs. Hudson’s tone changed. Sherlock looked at her sharply but she glanced away. “Well, it’s about … oh, I don’t know how to put this. Well, John. Sherlock, I don’t like the way he’s treating you. I don’t like the way he talks to you. I’ve debated mentioning it but dear, I honestly can’t stand it any longer, the way he disrespects you. I’ve said it before, I’m not your mother, and I won’t presume to tell you what to do, but Sherlock, dear, I care about you. You must know I love you like a son, and I would not want to see a son of mine treated the way John treats you now. If there is anything I can do to help you, I want to. I’m here to help, dear, day or night.”

Sherlock got the sense that Mrs. Hudson had planned her words, maybe even rehearsed them. He looked at the teacup in his hand, unable to meet her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your concern.” His voice was low and thick with emotion.

Mrs. Hudson reached over and patted his knee. “Sherlock, I know you and John went through a lot at the beginning. More than what would tear most couples apart. And I hate to see how it is now between the two of you.”

Sherlock nodded, head bowed. “Not between _us._ I'm still the same, Mrs. Hudson.”

Her hand moved to his shoulder, gripping warmly. “Of course you are dear. But sometimes love changes. People change. They’re not the same people you married – or moved in with, you know what I mean. No one is all good or all bad, dear. But sometimes people change and the bad just sort of takes over. I should know. It came to the point where I didn’t even know Mr. Hudson anymore, toward the end.”

Sherlock finally met her eyes. He wanted to say something to defend John, to defend them, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead he said “Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” It felt inadequate to express how much he appreciated her concern.


	7. Sickly Sweet Metaphor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a gesture of apology that goes sour.
> 
> Victims of intimate partner abuse will eventually start to doubt their own judgment. Under the barrage of blame shifting from their abuser, they start to think ‘what is wrong with me’ instead of ‘what is wrong with them’?
> 
> Trigger warning: Depression, situational depression, self-blame, unintentional humiliation, misunderstanding.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when he found the inside door to 221B locked. It meant that John was out. He _hated_ that he felt a flood of relief at the fact the man he loved best in the world was not at home – but he felt what he felt, whether he liked it or not.

John had left a lamp on in the living room. Sherlock closed the door behind him and unwound the scarf from around his neck. He turned toward his coat hook as he slipped the heavy Belstaff off. He noticed a small paper shopping bag hanging by its jute handles on his hook; it had the logo of his favorite confectionary stamped on the side. He took it off the hook and peeked inside to find a small square box of glossy brown cardstock. Still puzzled, he hung his coat and scarf and carried the bag to his chair.

He sat gracefully before he took the box out of the bag. A small square envelope, with his name printed in John’s messy-doctor handwriting, was taped to the top. He set the card aside and opened the box. Inside he found a small marzipan peach, exquisitely formed and brush painted by hand to exactly replicate a ripe peach. A tiny brown stem made of marzipan poked from the top with two tiny green marzipan leaves on either side. Each leaf was detailed and imprinted with a complex pattern of branching veins in the exact pattern of those found on peach trees. Sherlock knew from past experience that the inside of the exquisite confection held a tiny piece of butter cake, a teaspoon of buttercream frosting and a dollop of red raspberry jam. The outside was dusted with coarse confectioners sanding sugar that sparkled like tiny diamonds in the dimf glow from the lamp. This was Sherlock’s favorite confection – perhaps even his favorite food in the world. The marzipan peaches were insanely expensive; one could buy an entire layer cake for the price of one marzipan peach that was smaller than a squash ball. He inhaled the scent of almonds, sugar and butter, then set the box in his lap and reached for the card.

The cardstock was heavy, expensive. The confectionary logo was stamped on the front of the card in the same ink used on the bag. Sherlock opened the card and read:

Dearest Sherlock,  
I realize that I am saying ‘I’m Sorry’ to you often these days, because I’m doing so many things I’m sorry for. I hope you’ll take this as a token of my apology. I want to show you that I’m sorry, since words can’t begin to say enough.  
I love you,  
John

Sherlock sat staring off into the mid distance for a few minutes, not really thinking, just trying to feel something. Anything. But what he felt was just a bland numbness. He should be happy that John went to such trouble to fetch his favorite treat from so far across town and that John wrote such a nice card to him. He blew out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding (he did that a lot these days) and let his head drop to the back of his chair, sprawling his legs out in front.

Sherlock held the card loosely in the limp hand dangling over the armrest and thought of John’s words. _If John knows he’s being unreasonable more often than usual, then there’s hope that he can change. The first step toward change is acknowledging the problem. _Sherlock thought of how much _he_ had changed in the last year, of how he’d gradually stopped doing so many of the things that used to be a part of his life. How he’d just stopped talking; he remained silent even when he really felt the need to talk to John. He thought of how he’d just stopped asking for much of what he needed - be it in everyday life or in bed. It was just easier to go along with John’s wishes – easier to keep John in a good mood, easier to avoid John’s blow ups. _When did the focus of my life become to keep John placated?___

With a low sigh, Sherlock stood and went into the kitchen. He got out a plate and knife and carefully sliced the peach into four sections. He started the kettle and arranged the slices carefully on the plate while he waited for it to boil. He made a mug of tea then carried it and the plate back to his chair. 

Sherlock sat upright and placed the mug on his side table. He held the plate in his lap and surveyed it. _John’s peace offering. Sweet._ He placed the first slice on his tongue and held it there, letting the buttercream and marzipan melt in the heat of his mouth. The delicate flavor of almond, the tang of red raspberry, the buttery taste of cake and cream blended as he savored the bite. He washed the bite down with tea and paused, wanting to make the decadent treat last. 

Tannin and sugar blended in this throat for a sour aftertaste. He chewed the second slice slowly, wanting to distribute the tastes to all corners of his mouth. He savored the bite for a long moment then took another sip of tea. Sherlock savored the third slice longer, trying to stretch out the treat as long as possible. 

The fourth slice turned sour on his tongue when he thought of the symbolism. John’s apology to him was symbolized in a marzipan peach. A treat that looked like a juicy lush peach, but actually had no peach flavor and didn’t even contain a single trace of an actual peach.The entire thing was a farce, a pale imitation of a peach. Peaches were soft, sweet, full of natural antioxidants and vitamins. This treat was over-sweet and firm between his teeth. The coarse sugar coating crunched between his molars. Peaches didn’t _crunch._

Suddenly he couldn’t stomach another sickly sweet bite. He ran to the kitchen sink and spit out the masticated mess, washing it down the drain with hot water. He turned the tap to cold and gulped in mouthful after mouthful of clean water, swishing it violently and spitting it into the drain. He wanted all traces the taste of the impostor peach out of his body. 

Sherlock returned to his chair and drank the rest of his mug, swishing each sip around his mouth to mask the marzipan/buttercream/raspberry flavor. He hung his head and gulped air, afraid he would be sick. After a while his stomach calmed and he relaxed into his chair, head laid back, eyes closed. (Relaxed as much as he ever relaxed nowadays.) He thought about the metaphor of the marzipan peach and how it related to he and John’s relationship. On the surface, everything was beautiful, bright and shiny. The inside started out sweet on the tongue but left a sour aftertaste. _Oh god, this is NOT me and John._ _**It can’t be. It isn’t. I won’t allow it to be.**_

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He _loved_ John. John was everything to him. His life with John, John beside him at night, John across the dinner table, John tackling fleeing suspects, John with his gun in his waistband, John … John … John. At that moment Sherlock wanted John to be there, to sit in his chair across and take his hand, to tell him it would all work out – that everything would be fine. Sherlock sniffed as a tear slipped from his eye and ran into his hairline. He fished his phone out of his trouser pocket and pulled up John’s contact. There he was, a small square picture showing a handsome man, smiling brightly at the camera with crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Eyes that were shining with feeling because his love, Sherlock, was taking his picture. A tear splashed onto the screen and Sherlock wiped it away with the cuff of his shirt. He wanted John so badly but hesitated to call him home. Where was he? Errands, shopping, having a pint at a pub? Perhaps he was at the Yard, working on details of one of the three cases they were currently working. Since John left his job at the clinic they both kept odd hours and often forgot to tell the other where they’d be. _Will John be mad if I call him?_

Finally he was overwhelmed by his need for John’s reassurance. He jabbed John’s number and held the phone to his ear, counting the rings. John answered after the third ring; he sounded slightly out of breath. “Yeah, Sherlock? Everything okay?” 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John didn’t sound irritated to hear from him. He cleared his throat, trying to get a hold of himself. “John. I just wanted to thank you. For your gift. For the peach. It was very thoughtful.” His voice sounded high, thin, over-emotional. 

“You’re welcome, love. Listen, I’m at the gym. I’m nearly done. I’ll be home in a bit.” That explained John’s breathlessness. 

“John …. ummmm … I just wanted to hear your voice.” Sherlock winced at the neediness in his voice. He swallowed, then whispered, “Hurry home.” He swiped his thumb to end the call and dropped his head back onto his chair, feeling needy and pathetic. He drew his legs up and curled up to wait for John. 

John came in later with hair still damp and smelling of patchouli body wash, gym bag slung over his shoulder and his skin still ruddy from exertion. Sherlock sprang up to meet him, sweeping the shorter man into a bear hug. He buried his face in John’s damp, silky hair and murmured, “I missed you. Thank you for the treat.” 

John grinned up into Sherlock’s face. “I’m glad you like it. I wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve put up with a lot from me lately.” 

Sherlock leaned down and pressed his lips against John’s, hard. He needed deep tactile reassurance that John was _his John,_ that John loved him as much as he loved John. John’s lips twisted into a smile under his onslaught. “Sherlock?” he asked in an amused tone slightly muffled under Sherlock’s lips. 

Sherlock held John tighter, nearly squeezing the breath out of him. He nudged John’s lips apart with his own, tongue invading John’s mouth with a restless intensity; he was instantly turned-on in a needy, impatient way. He needed to feel John, touch John, taste John and he needed it _NOW._ “John, need you. Need you now,” he groaned. 

Sherlock backed John into his black leather chair, pressing him down by the shoulders until John sprawled across the deep expanse. Sherlock dropped to his knees without letting go of John’s shoulders. He pressed John back with his chest until they were nearly lying in the chair. He worked one hand between them and unbuckled John’s belt, then unfastened his jeans, trying to push them down without disengaging his long torso from John’s, which led him to groan in frustration, sit back and yank at the jeans. John lifted his hips slightly, balancing his weight on his elbows; Sherlock finally pulled both jeans and boxers off to fling them beside the chair in a messy heap. He fell on John, licking and stroking and sucking and moaning. John groaned under his ardor, his cock quickly growing thick under Sherlock’s wet, hot blitz. 

“Ohhh … Sherlock … slow down,” John gasped, grabbing at Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock just shook his head and swallowed John’s shaft, wanting all the tastes in his mouth to be _John,_ all the sensations in his body to be _John,_ all the scents in his world to be _John,_ , all the feelings in his over-busy brain to be _John_. He pressed until his nose was buried in John’s pubic hair and wished he could press even further. He breathed _John,_ deep, relishing the clean scent of his skin and hair. He felt the heft of John’s cock in his throat, its weight on his tongue, the rough texture of veins and frenulum and corona and foreskin, the heat and pulse of _John,_ in his mouth, the taste of _John,_. He pulled back, keeping just the glans in his mouth, to tongue at the meatus. John’s groans had gone from deep and throaty to sub-sonic – he hardly seemed to be breathing. Sherlock looked up to find his lover watching him starry-eyed, flushed and breathless. The look on John’s face sent a shock down Sherlock’s spine and up his cock. He pawed at his trousers, trying to get them off. He wasn’t wearing pants (didn’t often) so he shoved the trousers to his knees. He swallowed John’s length again as he touched his own cock, pulling quickly, needing relief _now_. It was good, it was more than good – it was wonderful, it was enough. 

Until it wasn’t. Sherlock pumped his cock roughly as he sucked and swallowed around John’s cock, ears filled with John’s moans and half-uttered endearments, nose filled with John’s scent. Suddenly the thought of the peach popped into his mind. The sour aftertaste of it, the sickly sweet smell of it, the overly soft consistency on his tongue, the crunch of the sugar between his teeth. And he gagged, and coughed, and pulled back, tasting sour after taste and smelling sugary almonds. He sat back on his haunches, head hanging, as he gasped for breath and struggled to stop gagging. 

John groaned – sounding agonized – and grabbed his own cock, jerking uncoordinatedly as he came gasping Sherlock’s name. Sherlock lifted his head just as the first wave of John’s orgasm hit; hot white spurts splashed on Sherlock’s neck and chest, one shot streaked his lips and chin. 

Nearly sobbing in relief, John pushed his hands into Sherlock’s underarms and hauled the taller man roughly into his lap. He pulled Sherlock tight, babbling, “Christ, Sherlock. That was amazing. My god, you’re so hot. I always wanted to come on your face. Holy shit. I think I’m going to pass out. I never knew you’d want that. Oh fucking god. That was good.” He trailed off to a stream of endearments interspersed with curse words. 

But Sherlock **_hadn’t_** wanted that. He felt disgusting. Thick, sticky come dripped from his jaw and oozed down his neck. His shirt was ruined, the wetness soaking through to his skin. The sour aftertaste of the peach was in his throat, on his tongue, gagging him. And his cock ached, needing release while the rest of his body fought the sense-memories of the peach. 

“John,” Sherlock choked and John interpreted it as a plea for reciprocation. He kept one arm tight around Sherlock’s shoulder, holding him firmly against his chest, while he reached for Sherlock’s erection with his other hand. His hand moved quickly, fingers tight around Sherlock’s shaft and it was _too much._ Sherlock groaned and squirmed, just wanting it over. He tried to focus on the feeling of John’s hand instead of the sour taste in his throat and the feeling that his teeth were sugar-coated. He needed relief, he needed to get this over with so he could brush his teeth and shower. Finally he couldn’t take any more. He shoved John’s hand away and took his over-swollen, almost-too-tender-to-touch cock in his hand and jerked quickly, coming almost instantly. He caught his ejaculate with his other hand, not wanting to humiliate John the way he’d been humiliated. He didn’t enjoy the orgasm – more endured it to get it over with. 

He immediately bolted down the hall and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He tore at his shirt, ripping a buttonhole in his haste to have the hateful sensation, the wet fabric _off._ He grabbed toothbrush and toothpaste and jumped into the shower, turning the water on hot, full blast. He gagged again as he tried to uncap the toothpaste tube then squeezed way too much onto the toothbrush bristles and brushed violently, dragging the brush over his gums hard enough to cut, gagging himself trying to brush the horrible sour taste off the back of his tongue. He threw the brush to the shower floor in frustration, gulping a mouthful of scalding water and swishing, gargling and spitting until at last the taste was gone. He grabbed the nylon shower puff and slathered on shower gel, swiping roughly at his face, neck and chest until the skin began to abrade. He dropped the shower puff, leaning over with his hands on his knees, panting and moaning. _Christ in heaven, what is happening to me?_

_I love John – I can’t live without John – why why why why – John apologized with a very thoughtful gift (don’t think about that – might vomit) – oh god I can’t do this anymore – I am going insane - why why why why – I can’t live without John – John assaulted me (no no no don’t think about that now) – why why why why – John loves me – something is wrong with John – he just needs help – give him time – why why why why – John will be the same – he’s mine, I’m his – oh my god stop – make it stop – he’s not the same – I am going insane – why why why why - why is he doing this to me – why can’t I leave – NO I don’t want to leave – I want to leave – NO NO NO NO this is home – John is home – why why why why – what is wrong with me – why why why why – WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME – no no no no –WRONG WRONG WRONG -_

He slid to the shower floor, steaming water streaming over his head, his face, his shoulders, leaving red scald trails. He sat focusing on the burning sensation, the pain it caused, finally enough to do what food, or sex, or thinking couldn’t do – shut off his mind. 

_I should be alarmed that physical pain calms me. Or at least mildly distressed. But I’m not. I’ll take peace however I find it._ Sherlock sat under the stream until it started to cool, the water heater running out. He heaved himself to his feet, twisted the tap savagely and toweled off quickly. He went along to the bedroom wearily with the towel around his shoulders to catch drips from his hair. He stepped into the bedroom and stopped abruptly. John was sitting on the side of the bed, his face a serious mask, his gaze level. Sherlock recovered from his shock and grabbed his dressing gown from its hook and pulled it on quickly. 

“Sherlock, what was that?” John kept his features carefully neutral, his tone modulated. 

Sherlock looked down, shaking his head and making droplets fly. “I don’t know.” 

John opened his arms, inviting Sherlock into the shelter of his embrace. Sherlock gratefully dropped onto the bed and nuzzled John’s neck, relishing the feel of John’s arms around his torso, John’s stubble scraping his forehead. “Sherlock, you. uhmmm, you … scared me,” John's tone was still neutral. “I … it was fantastic … the sex, it was good but then … what happened?” He stroked Sherlock’s cheek tenderly. “Didn’t you want that? Me to come on your face? I thought … when you sat back like that … I thought … I thought that’s what you wanted.” 

Sherlock’s face flamed. He buried it tightly in the hollow of John’s neck then shook his head. “I don’t know. Just. No, I didn’t want … that.” 

“And after? Sherlock, what happened?” 

The concern in John’s voice caused tears to spring into Sherlock’s eyes. He shook his head again, too upset to answer. 

“Sherlock,” John said again, trying to lift Sherlock’s face to his with a thumb under Sherlock’s chin. 

Sherlock pressed tighter, clinging to John’s torso. “No. Don’t … please don’t.” 

John dropped his hand. “Okay. It’s okay.” He stroked Sherlock’s back comfortingly. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax. He realized he was starving but couldn’t face the thought of eating. His head ached, his throat ached, his gums hurt and his cock felt raw. Food wouldn’t help any of that. 

Turning away from John, Sherlock wilted against his pillow. It was early yet but he didn’t feel like getting up. He curled his legs and wrapped his arms around them, staring at the wall. John stroked his back a few more times then sighed and stood, closing the door softly as he went out. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to think around his splitting headache. He lie still, trying to will it away. Suddenly the sound of _that fucking alarm_ broke through the extra-thick walls he’d built in his mind palace kitchen. He didn’t even try to rebuild the cabinet where he kept the alarm. _What was the use? That explains the headache._

_WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?_


	8. Consequences of actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John quits his job at the clinic. Sherlock get hopeful when John’s behavior improves from working cases full-time. Mycroft sends Sherlock and John to Florida to do some field work for a case. 
> 
> Trigger warning: Homophobic incident, codependency, depression, situational depression

Sherlock and John had a few peaceful weeks after the marzipan peach incident. John seemed calmer and more tolerant of Sherlock’s behavior than he had been in months. Sherlock continued to make an effort to please John, reigning in his ups and downs as best he could. It wasn’t healthy but at least it was more bearable.

John’s tread on the stairs warned Sherlock he’d had a bad day. Sherlock was at his microscope at the kitchen table when John came in. He didn’t glance at Sherlock, or even take off his jacket, but went straight to the cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured a double and carried it to his chair, still silent. 

Sherlock watched it all, bewildered, trying to deduce what had happened to change John’s mood. He stood at the table uncertainly, unsure whether he should try to talk to John. When he couldn’t take the tension of indecision any longer, he walked softly to the bathroom and locked the door. He sat on the edge of the bathtub with his elbows on his knees, head hanging down. John was clearly in a very foul mood and he didn’t know how to proceed. The claustrophobia of the small bathroom nearly smothered him – he had to do _something_.

Sherlock rose, flushed the toilet and ran the taps. He splashed cold water on his face before he toweled it roughly. He met his own eyes in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw there – indecision, doubt, fear? Fear. He shouldn’t be afraid of John in a bad mood. He loved John. John was his partner. He had nothing to fear. He straightened his spine and walked into the sitting room. John’s tumbler was sitting on his side table, empty. John reclined against the back of his chair with his eyes closed.

Sherlock sank to the floor between John’s knees. He laid a hand on John’s thigh softly. John opened his eyes. “John, what can I do to help?” Sherlock asked softly. 

John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, you know how you’ve always said my job is just a distraction, and I should be working on cases full time? Well, today you get your wish. I resigned my job at the clinic. Now you can have me for your cases full time.” 

“Resigned? You quit the clinic?” The alarm in Sherlock’s mind palace started buzzing. Something wasn’t right here.

“Actually I was invited to resign by the clinic directors. Seems that patients have complained about my bedside manner. I guess I’m not soft and cuddly enough for them.”John sounded bitter, biting off the last words.

Sherlock sat back on his heels. A chill ran down his spine. “John? What … what does this mean?” he asked warily. He hadn’t realized that John was displaying increased anger with anyone other than him.

John barked a bitter laugh. “It means I got sacked, Sherlock. They allowed me the dignity of resigning to avoid a black mark on my employment record. HA! Some favor. No clinic or hospital will hire me without a reference from the clinic.”

Sherlock gripped John’s thigh, looking deeply into his eyes. He saw bitterness, despair and, to his surprise, contrition and confusion. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly.

“Oh god, Sherlock, what is wrong with me?” John gasped. “Who have I become? What’s happening?” John lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s back and burying his face in his neck, sobbing loudly. John continued speaking but Sherlock couldn’t make out the words among the sobs. He held John tenderly, stroking his hair, murmuring reassurances.

“John, I think you should go see Ella again,” Sherlock said carefully and braced for John’s anger. Instead he felt John nod against his neck.

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” John gasped.

“Let me call her now. Please, John, don’t wait. Let me call her.”

John shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I can call her. Here, let me get my phone out of my pocket.”

Sherlock released John, who fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He wiped his eyes with his right hand as he thumbed through his contacts with his left. He punched Ella’s contact and sat back, holding the phone to his ear. “Hello, this is John Watson. I’d like to make an appointment with Ella. Yes. Yes, please. Yes, it is. Tonight? Yes I’m free. Thank you. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Sherlock watched John intently. John met his eyes after hanging up. “The scheduler asked if it’s an emergency. I told her yes, it is. They can get me in at 6 o’clock.” John looked miserable, defeated and humbled. Sherlock’s heart contracted at the sight. It pained him to see the man he loved so distressed.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sherlock asked softly.

John shook his head and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “No, but thank you. I think I’d rather talk to her alone.”

“I can ride along. I’ll wait outside for you or take a walk while you talk.”

John gave Sherlock a grateful look. “Would you? Yeah, I’d like that. I would like you to ride along. We can get dinner after.”

Sherlock smiled, taking John’s face tenderly into both hands. He planted a gentle kiss the corner of John’s mouth then drew him into another hug. “Thank you, John, for letting me help.”

Sherlock felt hopeful for the first time in months. John was willing to seek help, willing to let Ella help him with whatever was changing him. _No – not changing HIM, just changing the way he behaved._ Sherlock refused to believe that John was different. He might act different, but he was _John_ at the core. John, who he loved and who loved him. John, his life partner and friend. 

***x***x***

Sherlock took a long walk while John was in with his therapist. He stopped in a small park to text Mycroft.  
John resigned from the clinic today. - SH  
So I’ve been notified. -MH  
You’re monitoring the clinic’s records? -SH  
Of course, brother. -MH  
That’s disturbing. -SH  
He wants to work with me full time now. -SH  
Is that what you want? -MH

Sherlock stood motionless for a very long time. Is that what he wanted? To have John’s undivided attention and all of his time? John, at home all day. John accompanying him to NSY and on case investigations, every time. Sherlock felt like he was choking. _OF COURSE_ he wanted John! It was what he’d always said, that John’s job was a distraction – right? That John should give up his clinic hours to devote himself to The Work. Then why was Sherlock choking? Why did he feel like there was a noose around his neck?

Sherlock bent, bracing his hands against his knees, breathing deeply. Of course he wanted John, he told himself. John’s help would be invaluable. Then why was he hyperventilating in a park, on the verge of a panic attack? Before he could follow that train of thought, he viciously punched in :YES: and hit SEND.

Can you direct more cases my way? -SH  
To keep Dr Watson occupied? -MH  
To keep us both occupied and our heads above water. John’s clinic salary went a long way toward our household expenses. -SH  
Yes, brother, I can direct more work your way. I’ll send over case files this evening. -MH  
Thank you. -SH

***x***x***

They had dinner at a Bavarian restaurant near Ella’s office. Both men were quiet during the meal, each lost in their own thoughts. A black town car was waiting when they exited the restaurant. “Mycroft,” Sherlock said with irritation, “Spying on us again.”

John opened the door and sank gratefully into the plush seat. “Get in, Sherlock. At least it saves us the cab fare home.” 

A dozen file folders were lying on the seat. Sherlock scooped them up and flipped open the top folder. A yellow post-it note on the inside of the folder contained Mycroft’s elegant handwriting: ‘These cases are important but not urgent. You can set the timeline. This folder contains information about a man I need information on in Florida. I thought perhaps you and Doctor Watson might take a brief holiday before you get to work.’

“What is it?” John asked quietly.

“Mycroft wants to send us to Florida, to track down a man for him.” Sherlock handed the file to John. 

“I’ve never been to Florida,” John said.

“Dreadful place. It’s hot and humid, lots of bugs, and full of drug dealers. I hated it when I was there working for Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock curled his upper lip in distaste.

“But look, Sherlock, Mycroft wants us to go to Panama City Beach. That’s on the other end of the state from Miami. Maybe you’ll like it better?” John sounded…hopeful, relaxed – NORMAL. Like the John that Sherlock had fallen in love with. _Had his therapy session helped?_

“You want to go?” Sherlock questioned.

“Yeah, I would. I’ve only been to New York. I’ve never had the chance to see more of America. It could be fun. A few days on the beach, then we could get to work.” John actually sounded eager.

Sherlock nodded. “Alright, but I warn you, we’ll need a beach umbrella. I burn dreadfully.”

John laughed – an honest to goodness, real laugh. No bitterness, no scorn, no condescending attitude. 

Sherlock grinned and pulled out his phone. “I’ll let Mycroft know. When do you want to leave?”

“My schedule’s wide open,” John said lightly. “Why wait?”

***x***x***

The flight to Florida was long and dreadful. Mycroft had been unable to get First Class seats on such short notice. So – Coach it was. To add to the aggravation, a direct flight wasn’t available to northwest Florida so they had a layover in Atlanta.

Sherlock was folded into a window seat with John in the middle seat beside him. To John’s left, a corpulent American businessman reeked of gin, hogged the arm rest and spilled over into John’s space. The flight was full – not a seat empty. The flight crew seemed harried and distracted; the coach cabin was overheated and stuffy. John pressed against Sherlock to avoid the sweaty businessman’s encroaching shoulder.

Sherlock looked the picture of misery, too tall for the pitiful lack of legroom and crowded right up against the wall of the plane. He plugged earbuds into his phone as soon as the plane left the gate and cranked the volume loud enough to drown out the din of conversation. _The Academy by Request, Academy of Saint Martin In The Fields Orchestra, conducted by Sir Neville Marriner ;_ a compilation of some of his favorite classical pieces executed flawlessly by one of the world’s finest chamber orchestras. Beside him, John plugged earbuds into his phone and took out a book.

“What are you listening to?” Sherlock asked.

“Foo Fighters new release – Sonic Highways,” John replied.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed, pretending to have an idea what John was talking about.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?” John grinned.

“Not a clue,” Sherlock answered. “Going to try to sleep. Goodnight.”

“Want a Benadryl? It will help.”

“No, I’m tired. I don’t think I’ll need it.” Sherlock yawned an honest-to-goodness yawn. He would have liked to stretch but it was out of the question in his present accommodations.

John smiled fondly. “OK, it’s in the front pocket of my bag under the seat. If you can’t fall asleep, just help yourself.” John closed his eyes and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. The book remained closed in his lap.

Sherlock observed the cabin through slitted eyelids. He often found air travel overwhelming – too many people, too much noise. And coach was its own special circle of hell. The music flooding his senses helped. He narrowed his focus to the overweight man to John’s left. _In London for five days - business trip – did not close the deal – afraid he’ll be sacked – several harried telephone conversations with his boss – happy to be going home to Indiana to his wife and children – especially the wife’s cooking – two children, boy 9 and girl 7 – doesn’t know the wife is having an affair with the kids’ dentist – no, the kids’ orthodontist. (Stupid Americans, obsessed with straightening children’s teeth.) Undiagnosed stomach ulcer aggravated by failed business deal – also aggravated by too much fried food and alcohol – weak arches, needs orthotics in his shoes to correct ankle pronation – hip pain caused by the pronation._

Sherlock sighed, wondering if he should tell the man that simple inserts in his shoes would cure his hip pain. Then he noticed how the man’s shoulder, arm and leg were crowding John, and the curled-upper-lip-my-god-are-they-gay expression on his pudgy face. _Fuck it, suffer your hip pain, wanker. I hope you need a hip replacement before you’re 50._

Sherlock tried to relax. He concentrated on the wonderful warmth, the cozy weight of John’s head resting on his shoulder, the faint herbal smell of shampoo in John’s hair. He dropped his head, lightly rubbing John’s crown with his cheek.

John was out like a light; he’d taken Benadryl on the way to the airport to ensure he slept through the nine hour flight. Sherlock glanced side-eyed at the American and noted his my-god-are-they-gay expression had evolved to one of full-fledged disgust. Just to wind him up, Sherlock turned his head and planted a kiss on the top of John’s head. He also clasped John’s relaxed hand and laced their fingers together. John reflexively curled his fingers around Sherlock’s, the habit present even in his sleep. The man turned away, distaste written in every line of his figure. Sherlock smirked slightly. _I hope you have a heart attack by 50, too, arsehole. Keep up the fried foods – you’re headed for it._

Sherlock jerked awake when the flight attendant announced the final approach to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. He gently stroked John’s cheek to rouse him.

John blinked blearily, still under the influence of the antihistamine. “John, we’re landing in Atlanta. We have to change planes,” Sherlock coaxed. He noticed their seatmate glaring at them while pretending to adjust his carry-on bag under the seat in front of him. _Bigoted jerk._ Sherlock took John’s chin in his hand, planting a long, wet, loud kiss on his lips.

“Mmmm … Sherlock, okay, I’m awake,” John sputtered against his lips. Sherlock glanced up, lips still locked with John’s, to see the American man rigid with indignation. Only then did he lift his face away from John’s. He gave the man a wink and his most wicked grin.

***x***x***

They had a two hour layover. They spent most of it finding coffee and washing up in the disgusting men’s room. They found their gate and plugged in their phones to charge with just under half an hour to boarding time. They were both groggy, grimy and grumpy. They slumped together in the uncomfortable chairs, shoulders touching and legs sprawled in the aisle. When boarding was called they found themselves in a small regional jet for the short, one hour flight to Northwest Florida Beaches International Airport. John fell asleep again once they were in the air and Sherlock stared blankly ahead, too worn out to even put in his earbuds.

They arrived at tiny Florida Beaches International without incident and found the rental car counter. Sherlock was distressed to find the only car available was a new glossy black Dodge Charger. It was going to be difficult to be discrete in a screaming muscle car, but there wasn’t any other option at the tiny airport. He’d prefer something generic like a Honda Civic, but would make do.

John drove since he was finally alert, while Sherlock’s eyelids could barely stay open. It took only half an hour to arrive at the family-owned, budget hotel Mycroft had booked for them. Their story was they were British tourists wanting to experience the “real” Florida, making frequent car trips to discover hidden, out-of-the-way gems. In reality they would be attempting to trail the owner of the hotel, a known British counterfeiter who had moved his central operation from London to the Northwest Florida coast when MI6 had begun to close in on his operation. Mr. Brown, as he was known, printed currency in Florida. His network carted it both to England and around Europe, and even exchanged it for American currency in larger Florida towns. They were to observe his comings and goings, tail him if possible, and find possible locations of his illegal print operation.

Mycroft’s organization was cooperating with the CIA to bring the operation down in a coordinated sting. Sherlock and John were there for reconnaissance only. They were to observe and report back to Mycroft. Sherlock suspected that Mycroft had sent them mainly to smooth out the rough edges of their relationship and could easily have performed his sting without any information they would dig up. _Oh, well, may as well enjoy a beach holiday on Mycroft’s expense account._

And his mind palace was blessedly quiet.


	9. Blame Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re having a fantastic time on their beach holiday - until John overreacts to a minor annoyance and reveals the source of his venom to Sherlock. 
> 
> Like many victims of intimate partner abuse, Sherlock thinks something is wrong with him, not his partner or the situation. He continues to do mental gymnastics in order to preserve his relationship with John.
> 
> Trigger warning: Blame shifting, jealousy, depression, situational depression, mention of past abortion, threat of physical violence

Florida’s Northwest beaches seemed to agree with John. He was more relaxed than Sherlock had seen him for many months. John reveled in sitting in a beach chair, reading a book, drinking a beer and doing nothing. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a hard time controlling his fidgeting. He was bored but wasn’t going to ruin John’s mood by telling him. He longed for the days he could sulk and complain of boredom without irritating John. Shooting the wall of Baker Street out of boredom seemed like a lifetime ago now. Sherlock was keeping half an eye on the operation of the hotel and the movements of its owner, even though they were not supposed to start ‘official’ business until the following week.

A large, red and yellow striped beach umbrella was planted in the sand between their chairs. Sherlock had angled the umbrella carefully so that his lounge chair was in full shade while John’s was in full sun. A small wooden table also separated their lounge chairs. Sherlock was trying to think, hands steepled under his chin, but he couldn’t quite drop into his mind palace. The gentle sound of the waves lapping the white sand shore, the cries of the seagulls, the sounds of other tourists playing in the waves and walking along the sand distracted him. The beach wasn’t crowded, but it also wasn’t deserted. They’d avoided peak season but it was still blazing hot in September.

Sherlock lifted his sunglasses and glanced over at John. John had slathered sun block liberally over his face and body and insisted on doing the same for Sherlock. In spite of the sun block, John’s skin was burnished copper from the sun and his hair bleached several shades in just the few days they’d been in Panama City Beach. John’s eyes must have been closed behind his dark sunglasses because the book he had been reading had dropped from his hands and lay face-down on the sand beside him. 

John looked _good._ Not just good to Sherlock – he always looked good to Sherlock – but objectively good. His chest was well-defined, furred with golden hair shot with a few curly white strands. His waist was trim with only a hint of softness above his royal blue swim trunks. His legs below the swim trunks were well-defined and solid, brushed with more golden hair. Suntan suited him. He looked more natural kissed by the Florida sun than he did in the chilly overcast of London. He looked fully relaxed, all tension gone from his face and shoulders. 

Sherlock reached over and stroked John’s collarbone, down his arm to his wrist. John’s hand twitched but he didn’t wake. Bored, Sherlock picked up the book from the sand beside John’s chair and tried to read. It was rather pointless for him to be lying on the beach, sun fully blocked by the umbrella, while John slept, but he knew it made John happy. _The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest_ by Steig Larsson. Sherlock knew this book had been a bestseller and that John had read it before, but he’d never read the Larsson _Millennium Series_ books. He flipped to the first page and began to read. Really, it wasn’t so bad. The writing was engrossing even if the main character was rather predicable. He was well into the sixth chapter by the time John stirred.

“Mmmm…Sherlock,” John mumbled, turning toward Sherlock as he woke up. “Sorry, must have drifted off a bit.” John took off his sunglasses and smiled. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. John looked like … _John._ The John he’d fallen in love with, the John he’d faked suicide for, spent two years working his way around the underbelly of the world’s criminal organizations to save, the John he’d fought his way back from the gates of Heaven for. 

“Let’s go inside,” Sherlock croaked, voice dry from the afternoon on the beach.

John smiled and stood. He held out a hand to Sherlock; he took it gratefully. They walked back to their room with fingers entwined, not caring who might see. They brushed the sand off their feet on the tiny patio outside their room. John slid the glass door open and stepped in first. He caught Sherlock around the waist as he stepped through and pulled him down for a kiss. “You are the most gorgeous, palest thing on the beach,” John murmured against his lips. Sherlock smiled. He wrapped his arms around John’s hips and pulled him close. “And you are the most gorgeous bronzed thing on the beach,” Sherlock murmured in return.

Sherlock slipped his hands inside John’s trunks and worked them down. He scooted back a half step to slide off his own trunks then returned his hands to John’s hips. John’s skin was warm and smelled of coconuts. It was silky from the sun block lotion. John’s mouth tasted of salt and beer and heat. Sherlock’s reaction was immediate – his breath hitched, his eyes fell closed, his cock filled. It felt so good to be with John, this John – _his John,_ the man he loved so much. Sherlock opened his lips wider, inviting John’s tongue in and John responded, stroking Sherlock’s lips, his teeth, his tongue with his own. Breathy moans combined, neither sure exactly whose as John pulled Sherlock closer, pushed his knee between Sherlock’s and lifted his thigh to press the underside of Sherlock’s scrotum.

John broke the kiss first' he buryed his forehead against Sherlock’s neck to moan Sherlock’s name as he continued to press his thigh against Sherlock’s most tender spots. “Sherlock …. mmm … you feel … feels so good.” He moved his hand from Sherlock’s waist to his chest, capturing his nipple between thumb and forefinger, and pinched lightly. Sherlock made a contented sound, arching into the touch. John stepped back to put space between them. “Best shut these,” he said as he grabbed the cord for the vertical blinds and pulled them across the glass door to shut them tight. Sherlock took the opportunity to turn down the duvet on the king size bed. He climbed into the middle of the bed and settled against the headboard.

“Wait,” Sherlock said as John approached the bed. “Just. Stand there for a moment. I want to look at you.”

John paused. A blush spread across his cheeks but he faced Sherlock confidently. Sherlock let his eyes travel from John’s lighter hair, across his tanned torso, down to the white skin in the shape of his swim trunks, then down the tanned legs below. Sherlock raised his eyes to Johns and grinned. “The sun agrees with you,” he said in a low baritone. “I like.”

John smiled and knelt on the bed. He swung a leg over Sherlock, bracketing Sherlock’s hips with his knees. “I like it here. I like roaming about in just trunks. And watching you roam about mostly naked. The last time I was in this much sand and sun, I was covered from ankle to neck by a uniform. Didn’t get much opportunity for sunbathing then.” John sounded… happy. It had been months since Sherlock had heard John’s voice reflect this much happiness. He’d missed it.

Sherlock reached up and pulled John down by a hand on his neck. John came willingly, bending forward to kiss Sherlock with a hand against his sternum. John teased and kept the kiss light - lips only. He pulled back when Sherlock tried to deepen it by slipping his tongue between John’s lips. “Greedy,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips. “Impatient.”

John ran the tip of his nose down Sherlock’s jaw and lower to the spot his long neck met the shoulder. He sucked lightly at the tender skin. “How is it you still don’t have a bit of tan?” John asked playfully.

“SPF 75,” Sherlock smirked. “I never leave home without it.”

John sucked at Sherlock’s pale skin, pressing his teeth into the tender spot. Sherlock sighed and squirmed beneath him. “I’d like to see you with a bit of sun,” John breathed into Sherlock’s neck.

“Burn, peel, burn, peel,” Sherlock answered lowly. “That’s all you’d see.”

John sat back a smile. “Then it’s a good thing you have such a lovely complexion.” He leaned in to turn his attention back to Sherlock’s neck.

“Careful,” Sherlock hissed. “I’m going to look like a teenager fresh from a good snog.”

John smiled against Sherlock’s skin. “Exactly the look I’m aiming for.” He sucked one last time – hard – before lifting his face to smile at Sherlock.

John lowered his body over his lover’s, settled a knee between Sherlock’s knees and captured Sherlock’s lips with his own. This time John forced Sherlock’s lips open, tangled his tongue with the other man’s and stroked tongue-on-tongue over and over. John kept up his relentless assault on Sherlock’s mouth until the detective squirmed beneath him, hips rocking upward seeking more… more.

Both men were panting and grinding their hipbones together when John finally broke their kiss. He trailed his wet lips down Sherlock’s neck, over his chest to capture a peaked nipple between his teeth to tongue gently. Sherlock arched off the bed; his groan sounded pained. “John … god I want you,” Sherlock gasped.

“Tell me,” John breathed in Sherlock’s ear. “Tell me what you want.” He bit Sherlock’s earlobe, hard enough to sting. Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath.

“Mmmmm … I want your cock in my mouth.” Sherlock’s voice was low, gravely. “Pull my hair. Fuck my mouth.”

John responded to Sherlock’s filthy words immediately, grinding his thickening cock roughly into Sherlock’s hip. “Yeah. Then what … tell me.”

“Then … mmmm … then shove your thick prick town my throat … until I choke.” Sherlock broke off, panting hard. “I’ll relax my throat. Just take it. Take your cock ramming my throat over and over.” Sherlock rocked his hips up against John’s thighs, trying to find relief for his aching hardness. “Oh god … you’ll choke me … you’ll … you’ll gag me over and over. But you won’t come in my mouth. Ummmm… you’ll pull out and flip me over. You’ll grab my hips and fuck me. Rough. You won’t have time for prep. You’ll just … haaaa … just ram right in.”

John’s breath was ragged in Sherlock’s ear. “Yes … oh god Sherlock, is that really what you want?” 

Sherlock turned his head, nuzzling at John’s temple. “Yes, god yes John. Fuck me. Rough.”

John rose to his knees, kneeling over Sherlock. He inched forward until his knees were in Sherlock’s armpits. Sherlock got awkwardly to his elbows and crooked his face forward. “I can’t use my hands like this.” He said lowly.

“It’s ok. I’ve got you.” John threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and tugged his head forward. Sherlock opened his mouth and sucked John’s cock as far back in his throat as he could.

“Ohhhh, Sherlock. Fuck. That’s good,” John moaned as he began to move. He held Sherlock’s head still by the hair bunched tight in his fists while he rocked his hips gently. 

Sherlock made a disgruntled sound that came out muffled by the thick cock in his mouth. He pulled back as far as he could with John’s hands in his hair and moaned “harder” around John’s cockhead.

Sherlock looked up at John. He’d dropped his head and was staring intently at Sherlock. He pulled Sherlock’s hair – hard – and Sherlock’s eyes dropped shut, moans lodging deep in his throat. That sound seemed to go straight to John’s hips, driving them forward faster and more forcefully. 

John gave up all control and fucked Sherlock’s throat, one hand sliding to cradle the nape of Sherlock’s neck while the other cupped his chin, holding Sherlock helpless and immobile. “Oh god, oh god,” John groaned and pulled back roughly. “Can’t. I’m gonna come in about two seconds.” He closed his eyes and sat back on his haunches, his weight on Sherlock’s abdomen. 

“John,” Sherlock said urgently. John opened his eyes to the sight of Sherlock with tears streaming over his cheekbones, his face flushed, lips swollen and wet. He looked obscene – beautiful – just-fucked. John scrambled off so Sherlock could roll over on his stomach, folding his knees underneath his hips, open and waiting. “Do it … oh god … don’t make me wait.” Sherlock growled, desperate and out of control.

John pushed Sherlock’s knees wide with his own then knelt between. He grabbed Sherlock’s hips and held them in place, digging his fingertips into the pale flesh while he thrust his saliva-slicked cock in roughly. 

Sherlock hissed between his teeth. They’d never done this before. The rare times they had intercourse were always after hours of foreplay to make sure whoever was bottom was open and ready. But he wanted this – god he _wanted_ it. The pain. The pleasure. The overwhelming sensation of John’s cock stabbing his prostate with each stroke. The feeling of his bollocks pressing against John’s when John sunk in as deep as he could go. _Oh god. So good._ John stilled to give Sherlock time to adjust. Sherlock breathed deeply, relaxing his shoulders and jaw on each exhale. After a while he nodded.

“Now fuck me,” Sherlock rasped. “Hard.” And John did, driving Sherlock over the edge in just a few thrusts, Sherlock crying out, his cock untouched, clenching John’s cock into his body, pulling John’s orgasm along with his own. They collapsed on the mattress side by side, sweaty and slick and panting.

***x***x***

John ducked into the hotel’s tiny office to ask the pretty young clerk for recommendations on fine dining within walking distance. She suggested a restaurant called Firefly. They set off along the beach, both dressed in dark shorts and polo shirts, Sherlock’s eggplant and John’s pale icy blue. John carried brown leather flipflops; Sherlock carried navy canvas docksiders. They walked hand-in-hand along the water’s edge. Stars crowded the sky, the white sand gleamed and the Gulf was calm and dark.

Tilting his head all the way back, Sherlock said, “I didn’t know there were this many stars even visible from the Earth.”

John hummed agreement. “There’s still some light pollution here. The night sky is indescribable in Afghanistan. It’s so remote, so far away from streetlights. It felt like I could see every star in the Milky Way.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand fondly.

They arrived at the restaurant in a quarter hour. They brushed sand from their feet and slipped on shoes before they crossed the beachfront highway to Firefly. Sherlock held the door for John to precede him. As soon as Sherlock stepped in behind John, he sensed that something was ‘off’ in John. The hostess immediately seated them at a table in a tiny alcove. She handed them menus bound in thick black leather. “John?” Sherlock asked, puzzled at the tension in John’s posture. “Everything okay?”

John set his mouth in a resolute line. “Yeah, it’s fine,” he answered, but tension remained in his shoulders. A young waiter approached them, obviously of Caribbean descent, confirmed when he described the day’s specials in a lilting cadence. They ordered wine and appetizers but Sherlock remained concerned about John’s obvious discomfort.

John was silent through most of the meal, answering in monosyllables when Sherlock tried to introduce a topic of conversation. Eventually Sherlock gave up and spent the rest of the meal observing the other diners, deducing each in turn but not sharing his deductions with John. The silence lacked the usual companionable note usually present in their silences. 

John remained distant on the return walk, not touching Sherlock or taking his hand. Sherlock felt like a strap was winched around his ribs, making it difficult to breathe. Both men were tense and John seemed distracted. They passed the beachfront bar neighboring their hotel and John finally spoke. “Go on back. I’m going to stop off here for a drink.” His voice was tense.

“I wouldn’t mind a nightcap,” Sherlock said, trying to sound light.

“Fucks sake, Sherlock. Go back to the hotel. I want to get a drink. Alone,” John growled.

Sherlock took a step backward, hurt by John’s tone and his words. He wanted to say something but John had already turned and started walking across the beach to the bar. The beachward side of the low building was completely open. Dim light shown from the tacky interior and recorded steel drum music blared. It was the last place Sherlock wanted to be but he also didn’t want John to huff off in a state. John stepped from the sand to the bar’s concrete patio and dropped his flipflops, toeing into them; Sherlock shrugged and turned toward the hotel. 

He let himself in through the patio door without turning on a light. He dropped his shoes on the floor of the closet and picked up John’s book. He went back out to the patio and sat in one of the thickly cushioned chairs. Only then did Sherlock realize he’d have to turn on the overhead light to be able to read. Shrugging, he pulled his phone from his shorts pocket. He lost himself in checking the news back home, texting updates to Mycroft, checking in with various contacts and looking up information. Two hours passed before he realized; when he noticed the time, he started to feel uneasy about how long John had been gone. He spent the next hour staring at the Gulf, thinking of nothing. After another half hour he noticed a figure walking toward him on the beach. 

Sherlock could smell him before he could see him clearly. _Whiskey - and lots of it._ John dropped heavily onto the patio’s chaise lounge. He leaned his head back against the cushions and sighed. Sherlock stayed silent, still confused as to why John’s mood had changed so quickly at the restaurant. 

John started to speak without opening his eyes. “Sherlock, for someone who never misses a detail, you can be pretty fucking unobservant of the whole picture. Can’t you? Did you even notice that restaurant? Hmmm? What color were the walls?”

Sherlock spoke carefully, “I’d call the shade a bright goldenrod, or a dull yellow.” _What did the color of the restaurant décor matter?_ ”

“Yep,” John said, popping the “p” like Sherlock often did. “Did you notice the French doors? Hmmm? Did you notice all the birds in the décor?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew wide as he realized. “It resembled the venue of your wedding reception.”

“Yep,” John said, again popping the “p” loudly. “Nice of you to catch that so quickly. The entire restaurant was a fucking replica of that place. Throw in a couple of glass screens, paint some vines on the walls and it’s identical.”

“John, neither of us had been there before. Surely you don’t hold me responsible for the décor?”

John turned his head toward Sherlock, opened his eyes and peered blearily. “Nope.” _Stop popping that damned p!_ “But I would, maybe, expect you to suggest we go somewhere else once you noticed. Oh, but you didn’t notice, did you? Why would you? Hmmm? It’s just ME. Why would it bother you if the place reminded ME of her? Just that fucking bitch who killed our daughter weeks before she would have been born. Just me and that bitch who tried to kill me after she killed our daughter.” 

John was shouting now, loud enough to hurt Sherlock’s ears. “That murderous bitch who shot you! She killed you! YOU WERE DEAD!” His face was crimson and his fisted hands shook violently. “Goddammit Sherlock, why is it you can deduce every detail of every person’s life except when it comes to ME? Why didn’t you see it? What the fuck was wrong with you? Or did you just not care? Hmmm? Wasn’t worth the effort since it was only the woman _John_ was marrying?”

Sherlock knew that two things brought out naked truth: extreme inebriation and extreme anger. John was both. He thought it best to stay silent and let John run out of steam. His heart contracted at hearing the truth from John – John’s truth.

“You know, Sherlock, I thought that was the best day of my life. That day I did. There I was, between the two people I loved best. Then you had to go and nearly scream _I love you John_ in your speech. When it was too late. Too late, I’d already gone and married that bitch. God what a nightmare. The nightmare started right there, in that yellow room, with your speech.”

Sherlock couldn’t hold back any longer. “John, I am sorry. I’ve told you before. I didn’t realize until that moment just how I felt about you. I’d never been in love before.”

John closed his eyes again and let his head drop back. “Well fuck you very much for that one. Why didn’t you see? Why didn’t you see what she is?”

“I … I was … my reason was clouded by sentiment. John, I _wanted_ to like her. I wanted to love her for your sake. I … saw but did not observe. I didn’t pick up on any of her tells. You know how good she was, how she hid it so well.” Sherlock sounded as agitated as he felt. He didn’t want to drag this all out again. They’d discussed it ad nauseam when their relationship first evolved from friendship to more. “John, please, there’s no reason to bring this up again.”

“NO REASON! No reason for YOU. No reason for you to notice the restaurant that looked exactly like my wedding reception!” Spit flew from John’s lips as he shouted. His eyes blazed demonically. He rose shakily to his feet, looming over Sherlock. “Sometimes I want to slap that condescending look off your face. Such a _genius!_ You think you’re so superior to me. Well I guess Mary showed us both, didn’t she? Showed us that you’re just as _stupid_ as the rest of us.”

Sherlock stood, shoved past John and jerked the door open. He wasn’t going to be shouted at and insulted, no matter how drunk John may be. He stepped into the hotel room but John followed unsteadily. “John, I’m done with this conversation. We can discuss this in the morning, but for now, leave it.” Sherlock’s tone betrayed the icy fury he was beginning to feel.

John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and spun him around. John wobbled a little and kept an iron grip on Sherlock’s elbow to remain upright. He lunged forward into Sherlock’s space, tiptoeing to get as close to nose-to-nose as he could with their height difference. In a steely voice, John said, “Topic closed then. But it’s still _all your fault._ ”

Deeply wounded by John’s words, Sherlock rushed to the bathroom and closed the door carefully, turning the lock. He leaned against the door breathing deeply. John considers everything he went through – we went through – with Mary to be my fault. This was something new. While they’d discussed clues Sherlock may have missed when it came to Mary, John had never implied that he blamed Sherlock for missing those clues. Sherlock thought John understood how deeply he’d cared for Mary on his behalf, that his love for her had clouded his perceptions, making him either unable or unwilling to deduce her past and true nature. 

_He even blames the baby’s death on me._ Sherlock lifted a hand to his mouth, biting his palm to avoid sobbing. The baby. What Mary had done before she shot John had been the most painful thing of all. She’d ingested chemicals she knew from her medical training would kill the baby and trigger labor but not do any lasting damage to herself. John’s daughter had been just weeks before her due date, perfect in every way save what counted –she was not breathing, her heart was not beating. Mary had been careful to cover her tracks and make it appear to be spontaneous. When medical testing on the baby’s body had uncovered chemical markers that pointed to Mary’s unspeakable act, she’d shot John and fled. Mycroft had been unable to find any trace of her since. John had obtained a divorce on the basis of desertion and moved back to Baker Street. Sherlock thought they had moved on. He had no idea that John harbored such deep resentment – that John blamed the sad, horrible, ugly mess solely on him. _But how can it all be my fault?_

Of all the sad things that happened, John had mourned his daughter most. Truly, deeply mourned the baby who his ruthless wife had robbed him of. He’d bathed her tiny body and held her for hours, keening, before the hospital staff had taken her away. Her ashes stood on the mantle at 221b in a tiny silver urn. Sherlock often noticed John staring sadly at the urn during unguarded moments. John had seemed to get over Mary’s treachery in time but he never really got over losing the daughter he never got a chance to raise.

Sherlock moved to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He toweled it off roughly then clutched the towel to his eyes when he could no longer hold off tears. He perched on the counter top, bringing his knees up and dropping his forehead against them. The cold marble of the counter dug into his tailbone but he didn’t care. The physical pain was actually a welcome distraction from the mental anguish. How could he face John, unknowing that John blamed him for every bad thing that had happened since they’d met? Numbness descended on his mind with the tears and he cried silently for everything John had lost, and everything he had lost. _Losing. Everything I am losing._

Sherlock sat, not thinking, until his legs grew numb and the cold from the marble seeped through his shorts. Finally he sighed and unfolded himself stiffly. _No matter how John feels about me, we are here for a case, not just a holiday. Time to get to work._ He brushed his teeth and went out into the room. 

John was face-down on the bed, feet dangling over the side, leather flipflop still dangling from one foot. He’d passed out diagonally on top of the duvet. Sherlock pushed and pulled to move him to one side then fetched a blanket from the closet and gently tucked him in. He slipped between the sheets with difficulty – John lying on top of the covers made it seem like the bed was short-sheeted. He turned away from John and closed his eyes. 

His head was pounding from the mind palace alarm but he hardly noticed. The alarm screeching was such a familiar noise now it hardly seemed to mark notice. Sherlock carefully constructed a reinforced trunk in his mind palace kitchen. He packaged the painful memories of this night, tied them up carefully, and placed them in the trunk. He slammed the lid and turned the key then placed the trunk in the reinforced cabinet. He needed to focus on the case now – he would take these memories out later, back at home, and examine them to find a way to make things work with John. Because he couldn’t imagine things without John.


	10. Back to Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to work but the case falls apart. John overreacts and badgers Sherlock until he reacts. Sherlock doesn’t handle it well.
> 
> “Crazymaking” is the term for when an abuser insults, cuts down, cajoles, belittles and badgers their partner until the victim partner reacts in anger. Then the abuser turns the tables by saying “but you started it!” when the victim snaps and lashes out. 
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger alert: Blaming, self-blame, crazymaking, blame shifting, self doubt, assault.

John groaned and turned over when sunlight began to seep around the edges of the thick blinds over the hotel room’s patio door and window. “Sher…” he groaned, “Can you get me some water? I feel like shit,”

Sherlock had already been up for hours. He’d set up his laptop at the room’s desk and had been hacking the hotel’s systems looking for clues to the counterfeiting operation. He sighed softly and went to the minifridge for a bottle of water. He handed it to John silently.

“Can you do something about the sunlight?” John asked hoarsely. “Draw the blinds tighter or something?”

John sounded so pitiful it made Sherlock wince. He adjusted the blinds but wasn’t able to block out all the light. He fetched a spare blanket from the closet and draped it over the blinds, leaving the room in near-darkness. John was already back asleep so Sherlock decided to slip out and do some observation. He pulled on a tight pale blue t-shirt and toed into flipflops. He’d slipped on navy blue swim shorts when we got out of bed hours earlier.

The hotel was built in the shape of a “C” facing away from the beach with a pool in the open space. The office faced the pool. Sherlock decided to swim laps so he could observe the early morning comings-and-goings in the office. He took a towel from the stack already waiting near the pool gate. He dropped the towel on a lounge chair, kicked off his flipflops, shucked the t-shirt and added it to the pile on the chair. He sat on the edge of the pool dangling his long calves and feet into the warm water and watched the office from the corner of his eye. All was quiet. The night clerk, a pretty young blonde woman, sat at the counter with her chin propped on her hand, bored. He eased into the water and started to swim.

For over an hour he swam alternating strokes: freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke and butterfly. He and Mycroft had learned to swim as children. Mummy insisted her boys become accomplished swimmers so she would not worry about them around water. Each summer they’d received private instruction until their teens, when she’d insisted they earn National Pool Lifeguard Qualification. Not that she’d have ever let them work as lifeguards – how common – but she wanted them to be able to handle themselves in any situation. Sherlock had always loved the water – the feeling of weightless, the effortless gliding, the stretch and pull of muscles used in combinations so different from walking or running, the silence when both ears were underwater, the burn of breath held too long in his lungs and the blessed gasp of breath at the end of a stroke. He’d never competed at swimming except against his own best. He counted laps in his head as he swam, always trying to fit in more in an allotted time. But now he wasn’t trying to best himself. He was swimming languidly, keeping an eye on the office, standing at the end of each length of the pool instead of doing turns, stopping to catch his breath more often than he needed as a cover to reconnoiter the area.

Finally he heaved himself up using both arms. He sat poolside, feet still in the water, rivulets streaming down his shoulders from his flattened curls. Early morning operations at the hotel were mind-numbingly dull. The sole activity had been a Coca Cola truck stopping alongside the office; the driver had restocked the vending machines on each floor then dropped off paperwork to the bored clerk. 

Sherlock toweled off and flopped back on the longue chair. There wasn’t anything to be gained in going back to the room. A very hung-over John would grouse about his making noise or letting light in the room. He didn’t have anything relevant to research on his laptop (plus John would gripe about the glow from the screen). There wasn’t much to see poolside at this time of morning. He thought about taking a run on the beach but it sounded boring to do alone. Besides, his muscles burned from his swim workout. He wished he’d brought along his phone. He could have checked in with his brother, or at least bothered him in the middle of the night London time. 

When the urge to fidget became unbearable Sherlock pulled on his t-shirt and slid on his flipflops then headed back to the room. He let himself in silently, holding the doorknob turned to soften the click as the door closed. John was still out. He faced away from the door, still on top of the duvet with last night’s blanket around his waist. The water bottle on his bedside table was empty. Sherlock glided silently around the room, gathering three full water bottles, a bottle of Tylenol, an apple and an orange and placing them on the table beside John. He bent closer to observe John in the darkness. He was breathing evenly; his breath reeked of whiskey. He’d be out several more hours, if not until noon. There wasn’t anything else Sherlock could do for him at the moment so he scooped the car keys from the desk, changed into shorts and canvas boat shoes then slipped his phone and wallet into his pockets. He scribbled a note for John and slipped silently out of the room.

He’d found several properties owned, leased or rented by Mr. Brown directly or through one of his dozen business subsidiaries within a 90 mile radius and sorted the list from the most probable locations for his counterfeiting operation to the least likely. Sherlock suspected Brown actually had operations spread among several locations. He also suspected Brown had property under aliases to make them harder to trace back to him. He’d planned that he and John would scope out the locations today, starting with the closest and working their way to the furthest, while also taking time to enjoy tourist attractions as they drove. Instead he’d start on his own. 

The sleek black Dodge Charger made it hard to be inconspicuous. He considered driving back to the airport to see if he could exchange it for a more generic car – then he thought of how the muscle car thrilled John and how much fun John had had driving it. _Better at least consult John before trading this for a more unremarkable vehicle._ He sighed and turned the key. The engine roared to life; Sherlock had to admit to himself, he did feel a little thrill at the surge of power rumbling through the driver’s seat. _Americans certainly know how to make cars sexy again._

The first location he’d mapped was only a twenty minute drive. A warehouse on 15th Street in Panama City, the larger town inland from Panama City Beach. He drove around in a random pattern that passed the warehouse several times. There was no pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk in front of the warehouse so parking and walking would be too suspicious – especially for a tall, pale foreigner who was supposed to be at the beach on holiday. Not many tourists trolled the warehouse district of this small city. Sherlock growled his frustration and headed out of town. 

The next closest location he wanted to check was in Tallahassee – nearly two hours away. He hated to drive such a distance without John. He headed back to Panama City Beach at a sedate pace. It was still early, not even 10 am. John would most likely still be asleep which would leave Sherlock with nothing to do except ruminate over the things John had revealed in his drunken stupor the previous night. He passed a bagel shop then turned the car around, deciding John would be easier to deal with if he had a bagel in his system to sop up the alcohol. He bought a variety of flavors, a carton of cream cheese and small cartons of strawberry jam and lox. _Surely John will be able to stomach one of the selections._

He opened the room door silently. John was sleeping under the sheets now. One of the water bottles on the bedside table was empty, the apple was half-eaten and the Tylenol bottle lie on its side. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand softly over John’s shoulder.

John stirred and cracked one eye. “Sh’lock.” His voice was ragged.

Sherlock smiled fondly. “I brought bagels. Think you can handle one?” He kept his voice low, barely above a whisper.

John struggled out of the sheets and propped against the headboard. “God, I feel like a lorry ran over me. I don’t even remember … well, anything past ordering a double at the bar.”

Sherlock shrugged, refraining from commenting on John’s state the night before. “I got a selection: plain, blueberry, garlic and sesame. Also jam, cream cheese and lox.”

“I’ll try plain with cheese and jam. Just half, please.” John pulled a pillow behind his back then dropped his head back, closed his eyes and groaned.

Sherlock prepared John’s bagel and started the coffee maker. He carried a plate with the bagel and a mug with black coffee back to the bed. John opened his eye and took both, sitting the mug on the bedside table. He placed the plate in his lap and reached for the Tylenol, popped the cap and shook two into his palm. He gulped both at once with a mouthful of coffee.

Sherlock pulled the desk chair to the bedside. He dropped into it and propped his feet on the bed near John’s knees. “I got to work this morning. Nothing going at the office. I think the hotel is merely what it appears. Perhaps used to launder some of Brown’s illicit profits but no other operations here. I drove to the city, went past a warehouse. Nothing, and no way to case it out without drawing attention to myself. The only good point this morning was finding a the bagel shop.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched up. “I thought we were here to work together.”

“You’re in no state to work and I’m bored. I can’t sit around and wait for you to recover.”

John had the decency to blush. “So what’s next?”

“Road trip to Tallahassee. That’s the next place we need to investigate.”

John nodded. “I think I can make it. At least after this bagel and a shower.”

Sherlock looked closely at John’s face in the dim light. It was drawn, peaked and deeply lined. “You sure you’re up for this?”

John made an irritated sound. “Yes, Sherlock, I am up for it. I can ride in a car for a few hours.”

***x***x***

Sunlight glittered off the bay in a blinding display as Sherlock took the Route US 98 bridge toward Tallahassee. The heat was smothering – even with AC on full-blast the car was stuffy. John had settled into his seat and closed his eyes against the glare. Even with dark sunglasses, Sherlock’s eyes smarted. He punched the car radio’s SCAN button. The brief pause on each station irritated him until it landed on a public radio station playing classical music. _Brahms: Violin Sonata #1 In G, Op. 78 - Vivace Ma Non Troppo_ performed by Stefan Jackiw and Max Levinson. He set the station and relaxed into the driver’s seat, the music helping to loosen knots in his shoulders left over from the drama the night before. 

Eventually John drifted off; he snored softly. Sherlock turned onto the even smaller Florida Route 20. The drive was boring: flat, featureless, monotonous, dry landscape mile after mile. It gave Sherlock too much time to brood on the things John had revealed the night before – things he didn’t want to think about right now. He stabbed at the radio in frustration as the station faded, eventually turning it off in disgust.

John was still snoring when they reached Tallahassee. Sherlock found the warehouse district and took a first pass by the address he needed to investigate. It was a long, low warehouse with rusting steel siding. A faded sign hung on one corner: Florida South Printing – meeting your offset needs. _Promising, but would Brown really be so obvious as to use a print shop for counterfeiting?_ He drove around the city randomly for half an hour then drove through a Dunkin Donuts for coffee. _God’s sake, can’t Americans spell?_ The blare of the drive-through speaker woke John. He gratefully accepted a large coffee and dug around for more Tylenol in the backpack he’d brought along. Sherlock briefed him on his first drive-by of the warehouse.

Sherlock’s phone chimed as he pulled out of the doughnut shop. **Mycroft.** John glanced at Sherlock, who lifted an eyebrow. John punched the speaker button to answer.

“Sherlock, your cover is blown. Drive north immediately.” Mycroft’s voice was urgent and displayed obvious stress. 

“What happened?” Sherlock growled. 

“You are being followed and you’re in danger. Drive north, take the –“ Mycroft’s voice trailed off and they heard papers shuffling. “Take the Florida 319 North. Go as fast as possible without drawing attention to yourself. I’m in touch with the CIA, you will have a CIA escort momentarily. The CIA will find you a safe house. Don’t go back to your hotel. A CIA team will retrieve your items from the hotel and deliver them to you. Stay on the line, I should hear from my contact momentarily.” 

John quickly found Rt. 319 on his phone maps and Sherlock took a right to set their course. They were out of the city and on the open road in minutes. Mycroft came back on the line. “You’re going to a safe house in Ashville, North Carolina. I’m told it’s about an eight hour drive.” 

“What happened, Mycroft?” John sounded irritated. 

“It seems that you were known to Brown and his people from the start. They pieced together your relation to me and thus my organization. It seems your travels today alerted Brown to the true reason you’re in Florida. We discovered today that you’re been under observation since you arrived. As long as you behaved like tourists, you weren’t a threat to Brown.” 

Sherlock sighed. “Christ’s sake, Mycroft! You said this was simple recognizance.” 

“I assure you I did not intend to send you into danger, Sherlock. I texted the safehouse address to John’s phone. Now hang up and concentrate on getting there in one piece. Any cars tailing you from the CIA will flash their lights three times when they pull behind. If a car follows that doesn’t give the signal, call me immediately.” 

John read out the address as he entered it into his Google Maps. Sherlock glanced at him sharply at the tone of his voice. He sounded better than he had all day. Vibrant, even excited. _Perhaps this is a good development. John needs a shot of adrenaline._

Night had fallen hours before they arrived in Ashville. They’d stopped only once, at a gas station in a tiny town called Milledgeville in Georgia, where John assumed driving duties. Sherlock was relieved to give up control to John. John had grown more and more irritable as the hours trapped in the car wore on. At least if he were driving, he’d have something to do. Unfortunately that hadn’t worked out as Sherlock had hoped. John carped about the situation, about Sherlock blowing their cover, about cutting their beach time short, about how much trouble Sherlock had caused both Mycroft and the CIA. Really it was exhausting to hear so Sherlock muted his hearing and went into his Mind Palace to store away memories from their short holiday. He constructed an extra-secure metal trunk for the memories of the prior night. He’d think about those later. 

At Mycroft’s direction they’d taken the less-direct route through the mountains and had avoided Atlanta. A relay of CIA escorts had tailed them the entire time and no other cars seemed to be following. The escorting cars set the pace – 15 miles per hour over the speed limit. They’d passed several Highway Patrol cars who paid them no attention. _God bless the CIA._ They made the eight hour drive in a little under seven hours. 

Their destination was in a 1980’s style suburb of cookie-cutter homes; it was as nondescript as the surrounding houses. The overhead garage door opened as John pulled onto the asphalt driveway. It shut after them automatically. A man of Filipino descent, wearing a black suit, stepped through the doorway from the house. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Waston, I’m agent Alu. This way please.” 

They stumbled from the car and into the kitchen, shaking Agent Alu‘s hand. A small table in the corner of the kitchen was laid with a cold supper of sandwiches, salads and condiments. Both men fell into chairs gratefully; other than a bag of Chex Mix and canned ice tea from the gas station, they’d not eaten since bagels that seemed, to them, to have been days ago. 

Agent Alu briefed them with details as they ate. They were to spend the night at the house and leave early the next morning for Ashville Regional Airport for their flight to London via Atlanta. Agent Alu handed their boarding passes to them; he told them the rest of their items were waiting in the bedroom upstairs, including their passports. They trudged up the stairs behind Alu. He opened the second door of four in a hallway. 

The bedroom was as generic as the rest of the house. Their bags sat atop an oak dresser. A lamp on a bedside table threw dim light into the room. A double bed was the only other furniture in the room; its duvet and top sheet were already turned down in welcome. Both men stripped to their pants and fell into it exhausted. 

“Better get up and brush our teeth. Wouldn’t a cavity be the icing on the cake for this cluster fuck?” Sherlock winced at John’s dark tone. He was exhausted and just wanted to drop off to sleep - teeth be damned. He made a noncommittal sound in his throat and pulled the sheet to his chin. 

“Come on, sunshine. Up.” John’s words were teasing but his tone was dark. He slapped Sherlock on the hip. The gesture might have been meant to be playful, but it hurt a little too much for fun. 

“No, sleeping. Go ahead,” Sherlock finally answered. 

“So you jerk me away from a perfectly fine beach holiday because you don’t have enough self discipline to follow our plan, and now you’re playing the put-upon, long suffering partner? Um, no, Sherlock, you don’t get to play the martyr here. Get the fuck up.” 

John had sat up while he delivered his monologue in a nasty tone. Sherlock rolled to face him and opened his eyes. “No. We are not doing this now. Go to sleep, John. We’re both exhausted.” 

“What exactly is it we’re not doing now? Hmm?” The set of John’s jaw displayed his anger even though his tone remained low. 

“I’m not discussing this now. We’re not having a row. Just let it go for now. We both need sleep.” Sherlock’s tone began to show his own suppressed irritation. 

“The last I knew, you don’t get to pick when and how we discuss topics of conversation. You’re not my headmaster or my CO. This whole bloody mess is your own fault for going off half cocked so we will fucking talk about it _now._.” 

“Drop it, John. I’m not doing this.” Sherlock’s mood had escalated from irritation to anger. He just wanted to sleep and wished that John would just shut the hell up. 

“We _are_ fucking doing this now, Sherlock! We’re supposed to be working together, remember? Yet when I take a morning to sleep in _while we’re on holiday_ you run off like a toddler chasing a butterfly. Fuck’s sake, I can’t take my eyes off you for one minute.” John was shouting now, very loud and very nasty. 

“Stop talking to me like I’m a child! You are not my CO either, John. I went off on my own because you were too hungover to get out of bed. Just like you, wasn’t it? Rather than face a difficult emotion, you climbed into a whiskey bottle and drank your way to the bottom. So fuck off and leave me alone.” Sherlock was shouting now, too. 

John leaped off the bed and strode angrily around the footboard to Sherlock’s side. He loomed over Sherlock, hunching his shoulders threateningly. “Maybe I had to get drunk to deal with how little my _partner_ thinks of me! Ever think of that, genius? A little drink now and then takes the edge off and makes it more bearable to live with _you_.” 

John’s cruel words stung and fanned the flames of Sherlock’s anger. Without thinking he lunged up and caught John’s upper arms, shoving him roughly away from the bed. John stumbled back a step then righted himself with a hand on the dresser. 

"WHAT THE FUCK SHERLOCK!” John’s shouts could be heard in the next house. “Don’t you dare fucking hit me!” 

Sherlock flopped back, stunned by John’s words. He hadn’t hit John. 

“Get the fuck out. Go sleep on the sofa! Sleep on the floor for all I care. I will not share a bed with someone who assaults me. GET OUT!” Spittle flew from John’s mouth as he shouted in rage. His face flushed crimson and veins stood out at his temples. 

In all their years together, Sherlock had never seen John like this. He vaulted from the bed and snatched up his shirt and shorts from the floor. He slammed the door behind himself on the way out. 

There was a hall bathroom beside the bedroom. Sherlock ducked in there to dress quickly then went down the stairs and into the dark kitchen. He saw Agent Alu through the kitchen window; he was sitting in a folding lawn chair on the back porch facing the darkness of the back garden. Sherlock opened the refrigerator just to have something to do. He rummaged around until he found a bottle of water. Alu was standing in the open doorway when Sherlock shut the fridge. The light in the kitchen must have altered him that one of his charges was downstairs. The two men looked at each other in the dim light and Sherlock knew with no doubts that Alu had heard every word. He turned and went into the living room. Alu followed. 

Alu took the wing chair by the window. He trained his gaze on the street outside. Sherlock sat on the generic brown sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. 

“You could use a drink.” Alu spoke it as a statement, not a question. Sherlock nodded. Alu rose and went through to the kitchn. He returned a few minutes later with a tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. He handed it to Sherlock with a sympathetic glance then returned to his post by the window. 

“Stress brings out the worst in some people.” Alu’s tone was warm. “There are two more bedrooms upstairs. I’m on until midnight then two relief agents will take over. There are also agents in cars, one parked near the entrance to the development and one patrolling the nearby streets. No one except you two will be sleeping here tonight.” 

Sherlock gratefully accepted the glass. “Thank you.” He took a long pull from the tumbler. “This is nice. What is it?” 

“Jack Daniels. The agency only buys American. It’s made in Tennessee.” 

“I thought Jack Daniels was some type of - what’s the word? - hillbilly drink. This is actually quite good.” Sherlock took another long sip. He watched Alu over the rim of the glass. 

Alu laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s made in a modern distillery, not some redneck’s still behind his cabin. It’s not moonshine.” 

Sherlock tipped his head back and drained the glass. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, exhaustion, adrenaline from the recent row or a combination of all three but he felt rather more buzzed than one drink warranted - even if it was a triple. 

“I think I’ll go up. Thank you, Agent Alu, for everything.” Sherlock was so grateful for Alu’s unspoken understanding that he felt close to tears. 

Alu rose and extended his hand. He spoke as Sherlock took it into a firm handshake. “Best of luck to you, Mr. Holmes. Goodnight.” 

The upstairs hallway was dim. The only light came from the living room below. Sherlock went along to the door at the far end and opened it to find a slightly smaller room than the one two doors down where he’d started out the night. It was furnished identically to the room where John slept. He stripped off his clothing again and crawled under the covers. As exhausted and spent as he felt, sleep eluded him. He’d left his phone on the dresser in the other room so he had nothing with which to distract himself. 

He missed John - he hated to sleep alone and it hurt terribly that John was just on the other side of the wall, also alone. Even though John’s words had been cruel, Sherlock suspected that he’d overreacted. Letting emotions get the best of him always ended in disaster. He’d never assaulted anyone - ever. Well, except the CIA agent who'd roughed up Mrs. Hudson, but that was a different situation entirely. _Is a push considered an assault?_ It was an act of aggression, that was certain. Now he was as bad as John, flying off the handle and attacking his partner in anger. Sherlock curled on his side; tears slipped from his tightly-closed eyes. He’d hurt John deeply; he was ashamed. He thought back to all of the things John had done to him in the past months but rationalizing that his push hadn’t been as bad as John's actions just made him feel worse. He’d pushed John away in anger - John, the person he loved best in all the world. How would he ever be able to forgive himself? 

Alcohol, shame and grief combined to make Sherlock’s world tilt. He felt sick, dizzy and shaky. He wanted John but was afraid to face him. And the blaring alarm in his Mind Palace only added to the sick feeling in his stomach. 


	11. Building castles in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abused partners often go to great lengths to control the situation in their home to make sure they don’t anger or offend the abusive partner. The level of codependence grows deeper the more unhealthy the relationship grows. The codependent partner tries to find ways to make life perfect for their partner, to manage the other partner in such a way they don’t become upset. Walking on eggshells becomes walking on landmines, always trying to avoid a blowup. The abused partner’s life becomes one long exercise in keeping the other partner happy.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Extreme co-dependence, self-devaluing, situational depression

It hit Sherlock like a punch in the gut the next day, halfway across the Atlantic. Thankfully they were seated in First Class this time. John was asleep; Sherlock was reclining beside him with eyes closed and fingers steepled. John had been coolly polite that morning, playing the role of Wounded Partner. Sherlock had been contrite and apologized profusely. While John’s words said he accepted Sherlock’s apology, his actions said different.

Sherlock lightly bit the tips of both index fingers as he thought. He thought about their holiday, how well things had gone the first week and how much they’d enjoyed each other. He thought about how drastically it had changed and that John still didn’t know what he’d revealed while drunk. Sherlock had locked the events of that in night away in his Mind Palace and been too busy to think about it all until now. 

As painful as it was to dissect, Sherlock was not a man to lie to himself. He needed to think out John’s revelation and prepare a plan to confront John and deal with the consequences.

His first idea was to avoid the unpleasantness altogether. _John likes sunny climates. He was happy with the lack of responsibility. He was happy until the restaurant reminded him of Mary. Could we move to a sunny country, live off my trust fund and make sure nothing reminds him of Mary?_ Even as he thought it, Sherlock knew it was ludicrous. John would never agree to being kept by Sherlock’s family money any more than he’d agree to leaving London. And there was no way Sherlock could ensure that nothing ever reminded John of Mary. It was a nice pipe dream, but just not practical.

The well of pain John carried was deeper than Sherlock had ever realized. Sherlock had no trouble understanding how much John mourned the baby. Her death, the fact that she’d never had a chance to live, had also affected Sherlock deeply. Not as deeply as her father – he realized that only a parent could feel the pain of losing their child – but Sherlock did mourn the tiny girl. _Was this my fault?_ If he hadn’t been affected by sentiment for John, and extending that sentiment to Mary, could he have prevented it all? Could he have seen Mary for who and what she truly was? Could he have deduced the depth of her coldness, her apparent lack of the ability to truly love another person, and her complete self-centeredness, her connection to Moriarity? But if he hadn’t given in to that sentiment, he and John would have never come together. John would have remained his best friend and Sherlock would always have loved him from afar, never declaring his true feelings.

So how to make this better for John?  
Point one: John blamed Sherlock for not valuing him or taking his feelings seriously.  
Point two: John blamed him for not deducing Mary’s true nature from the start.  
Point three: John blamed him for not declaring his love before he’d married Mary.  
Point four: John blamed him for not stopping Mary from murdering the baby.  
Point five: John blamed him for Mary’s attempt on his life.  
Point six: John felt Sherlock did not care because he didn’t notice the similarity between the restaurant and the wedding reception hall.

Points two through five were out of Sherlock’s control. John felt what he felt. Sherlock couldn’t understand where those feelings came from, but that’s how John’s mind worked. Only by working on points one and six could he affect the other points. _I can find ways to show John how much I value him, that I take his feelings seriously._ Sherlock could be more aware of his surroundings, try to correlate surroundings with places John went with Mary in the past. _Yes, that could work._ Maybe John had a point, maybe he did put John last. Maybe he had a blind spot where John was concerned. _Otherwise I would have noticed the restaurant décor – right?_

_But how?_ How could he show John that he takes his feelings into consideration and that he does value him. First, he’d make sure to follow through with being more aware of their surroundings. Next he could keep the flat neater. Both John and Mrs. Hudson were constantly grumbling about Sherlock’s mess. _Hire a housekeeper?_ Maybe a weekly cleaning service would work. Have a service to come in weekly to do the scrubbing, sweeping and dusting. That would free up some of John’s time. And it would force Sherlock to contain his messes once a week by straightening up before the cleaning service arrived. _That will work. I’ll ask John how he feels about it._ Of course Sherlock would pay for the cleaning service from his own account. It would be a gift to John – an ongoing gift to the both of them. Sherlock felt cheered already from making one solid decision.

_Give John the debit card._ After the horrible fight over Sherlock’s withdrawing funds from their joint account my mistake, Sherlock had stubbornly clung to his debit card, feeling that to surrender it to John would be to give over control of his very life. _That’s silly. I have my own accounts._ While they pooled their funds for household expenses, both men kept separate accounts and neither knew the full extent of the other’s finances. John got tetchy when Sherlock tried to discuss it; it was clear Sherlock’s family money was a sore spot for John. Sherlock had let it lie, unwilling to make John uncomfortable by pressing the issue. The fact was, Sherlock had quite a lot of money at his disposal, both in liquid accounts, his trust fund, and in investments. Mycroft had finally given over control of his assets to him after John came into his life and Sherlock had stayed clean for many years. He could finally appreciate Mycroft’s meddling during the years before John; by taking control of Sherlock’s accounts and investments, Mycroft had conserved the principal and grown the assets. Sherlock could finally admit now that if Mycroft hadn’t been such an overbearing, interfering bastard, he’d probably have been destitute.

So, give over his joint debit card to John. That was an easy one. He very rarely used it, preferring to just give John cash to deposit for his portion of the expenses. Good, that will make John happy – make him feel like he won that horrible battle at last. Sherlock smiled, satisfied with his plans so far.

John was happiest when he was busy, and even happier when that busyness included an element of danger. Sherlock couldn’t predict the types of cases that would come his way but he certainly could control the volume of cases he accepted. Perhaps he could bend his own rules, start accepting cases of a lower interest-ranking; he could focus on those cases and funnel the more exciting and dangers cases to John. _God, how boring would that be?_ Boring, yes, but if it kept John occupied and happy, wouldn’t it make Sherlock’s life better and he’d be happier, too? Yes, he could do that. He could bend his professional principles just a little, if it meant things were easier between he and John.

_Mary._ John continued to be uncomfortable with the fact that Mary was at large. He didn’t think he was in any danger and neither did Mycroft, but it pained and irritated him that she was free in the world and had never been brought to justice. Mycroft had tried, pulling in favors from agencies all over the world, but they’d been unable to turn up the slightest trace of her whereabouts. Perhaps Sherlock could privately concentrate on finding her so Mycroft’s people could bring her in. _That would make John VERY happy._ Well, happy wasn’t exactly the right term, but it would give John closure and take away a source of stress that always lurked in the shadows of his mind.

Hire a housekeeper, give over his debit card, give John a bigger part in dangerous cases, find Mary. Sherlock was satisfied with his list so far. What else?

_Propose._ The idea was so ludicrous when it popped into Sherlock’s mind, he’d laughed aloud. _Good thing John’s asleep._ Sherlock rolled the word around in his mind – propose. Propose marriage. Ask John to marry him. Marry John. Oh that would make John happy. While John did many unconventional things, at heart he was a very traditional person. Queen and country and serving the flag and all of that. He was happy with routine; he liked to know what was coming next. And when it came to family matters, he’d been truly orthodox: proposed to Mary in a nice restaurant, church wedding, reception with dinner and dancing. 

And in a word, that was it. John’s wants were ordinary when it came to family, yet he was in an extra-ordinary relationship; he lived with and had sex with a man, carrying on without the benefit of a wedding ring. Sherlock could see now how John’s unconventionality warred with his traditional values. And Sherlock was a 6’, physical symbol of just how unconventional John’s life had become. Would marriage help sooth John’s conscious? Would it lie to rest John’s irritability? _I can ask. At least I can give him the option._ He’d do it – he’d buy a ring an propose marriage to his partner. Sherlock didn’t care one way or the other; marriage was just a dull legal formality to him. He was happy with John as things were, but if it could make John happy, he’d go through that formality.

Sherlock reviewed his plans and was satisfied he was heading in the right direction. He pulled his coat tighter around his body and laid his head on John’s shoulder, finally able to drift off in peace. He dreamed of Baker Street and happy times from the past with John, and happy times to come. And his mind palace was too full of plans to raise an alarm.


	12. Period of relative normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Partners in an unhealthy relationship can still have periods of normalcy. They can even “fight fair” on occasion. While it seems to be a good thing, periods of relative normalcy can drag out the inevitable end of an unhealthy relationship.
> 
> The normalcy is “relative” because unhealthy dynamics, such as codependency, are still present.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Codependency.

His phone vibrating on the bedside table woke Sherlock from light doze. John was deeply asleep beside him, eyes darting back and forth in REM. Sherlock swiped right and talked quietly to Lestrade, who wanted him on a crime scene. He murmured his ascent, ended the call and rose up on an elbow to peer at John in the dim light coming in around the curtains.

John’s face was deeply lined and he was clearly still exhausted. Jet lag and the adrenaline crash from the end of their Florida trip had left the older man rung out. Sherlock decided to let him rest and went into the ensuite to dress. John didn’t stir as Sherlock went out through the bedroom. Sherlock closed the door quietly and tiptoed down the stairs. _No sense in waking Mrs. Hudson either_

Thirty minutes later found him crouched over the body of a man in his late 20s or early 30s in an alley not far from the popular Fabric nightclub. The man was dressed in tight black trousers and tighter black silk shirt. The trousers were unfastened and no wallet or phone had been found on the scene. “Really, Lestrade, you couldn’t have figured this one out yourself?” Sherlock’s sardonic tone wasn’t lost on the Detective Inspector.

“See here, Sherlock. I called you out as a bit of a favor. I know your gig in Florida got cut short. Thought you might appreciate the extra work. But if you’d rather…”

“No, it’s fine. I do appreciate your consideration.” Sherlock quickly cut Lestrade off before he decided he didn’t need the consulting detective’s services. _He’s right. We do need the work._

“And where’s John? I thought he was working as a full time consulting detective now.”

“Yes, he is in working with me – I mean, we are in business together full time now. John was sleeping soundly so I let him. Jet lag hits him hard.”

Lestrade blushed – he really, really didn’t need the mental image of John and Sherlock asleep together in his mind’s eye. He nodded briefly, obviously in a hurry to change the subject. “So what do we have here?”

“As you can see, this man has been strangled. From the fibers on his shoulders it’s clear he was strangled with something made of silk, most probably a scarf but it could have been a shirt sleeve. White, lightweight silk article. From his clothes and state of his hair I’d say a he was on his way home from the nightclub. I can also say he was not alone, he’d left with a stranger, most probably a hook up. From the marks on his neck, I would say he was hooking up with a man a few inches taller than him. It could be a taller woman but she would have to have a lot of upper body strength to strangle our victim. Trousers are unzipped so he and his hook up had probably stopped for a quick snog and grope. Run tox screens. I’m certain you’ll find MDMA in his system. The murderer drugged him at the club and steered him into this alley with the promise of a quick … shall we say “encounter?” Fabric is notorious for MDMA – nearly got closed down last December because four people had died from it while partying at the club. Our man either panicked at the victim’s resistance – which I don’t think is the case, no sigh of struggle – or had planned to strangle him all along. In such case, either a man known to the victim, probably and ex who has a grudge, or a petty criminal who planned to roll him for his wallet and phone and things got out of hand. Review the doorway camera footage at the club. See if you can identify who the victim left with – look for a white scarf or white shirt around his shoulders. Find the victim’s name, you can probably find his phone from its GPS unless the murderer has already ditched it. “

Lestrade had been taking notes, furiously scratching in a notebook with the stub of a pencil. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. “Really, Detective Inspector, get into the 21st Century. Can’t you just record my deductions with your phone? You take glee in recording me at my lowest moments. Can’t you record me doing something I’m good at for a change?” He gave Greg a lop-sided grin and turned with a swirl of his greatcoat. “I’m off. I’ll come by before lunch to file the paperwork.”

Day had dawned while Sherlock was out. He found John at the kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. He poured himself a mug and sat opposite John, pulling the sugar bowl to his side and stirring spoonfuls into the mug.

John folded his paper and laid it aside. “You’re out early.”

“Lestrade called with a case. You were deeply asleep so I went alone.”

“But you don’t work alone any more. Remember? We’re partners now. Full partners.”

Sherlock nodded and continued to stir his coffee. John’s voice was mild but something set off a faint alarm in Sherlock’s mind palace. “Yes, we are. But this case was barely a three. I’m surprised Lestrade called at all, he could easily have solved it himself. I could tell that over the phone. And you were tired. I thought you needed the sleep.”

John folded his hands on the table. He started at them as if they’d offended him. “Yes, I was tired. I still am. And losing a few hours of sleep wouldn’t have changed that in the least.”

Something in John’s tone set Sherlock even more on edge. “John. I really didn’t think this was worth waking you for.”

John finally glanced up, eyes full of both pain and fury although his tone was still mild. “You didn’t think, did you? Didn’t think of me. Your partner. Partner in all ways now, including in the work. But you don’t see it that way. I’m still your assistant, your blogger. To be included when it’s convenient for you.”

“John, I didn’t mean any disrespect. You _are_ my partner in every way. I was looking out for your welfare.”

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice to have had a say, Sherlock.” John’s hands were shaking now even though they were still clasped tightly together on the table.

Sherlock was at a loss. He still didn’t see what he’d done to merit John’s irritation – that was quickly turning to anger – but he didn’t want a scene, so he agreed. “I will, John. I’ll wake you when I get calls from Lestrade, no matter how tired you may be.” He smiled warmly, hoping he’d said the right thing.

John sighed and hung his head, still irritated. “It’s more than that Sherlock. You don’t see me as your equal. You never will.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as the corners of his mouth turned down. “No, John, I don’t see you as my equal.” John’s head whipped up, pain in his eyes. “I see you as my superior. While I might be able to notice details, you know how to heal sick people and have a laugh at a pub with friends. When you meet new people they like you and you listen to Mrs. Hudson without putting on the mute. So John, I don’t think I’m your superior. I think I’m your … inferior.”

John grinned. “Subordinate. That’s what we call it in the Army. Not inferior in any way. There’s a place for everyone and each rank counts. Everyone can’t be a general. Thanks, Sherlock, for reminding me.”

“Then we’re each other’s subordinates.” _Okay, I can use this to turn things around this morning._ Sherlock stood and put his mug in the sink then turned and put his arms around John from behind and whispered in John’s ear “I didn’t have time for a shower earlier. Join me.”

John turned in his seat. He reached up and pulled Sherlock down to him, crushing Sherlock’s mouth in a bruising kiss. Sherlock responded immediately by parting his lips and taking John’s tongue in, caressing it with his own then invading John’s mouth, caressing the wet, tender inside of John’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue until John moaned. Sherlock straightened and pulled John up by the arms. He pulled him clumsily along the hall to the bathroom, trying to kiss while keeping his grip on John’s arms. Their feet tangled as they jostled through the bathroom doorway, nearly falling. John stepped back to strip off the faded grey Counting Crows t-shirt he’d slept in. Sherlock followed his lead, quickly shedding his jacket, shirt and trousers. John turned to start the shower to give the water time to warm up.

They bumped knees as they shucked their pants then crowded together into the small tiled enclosure. John spun Sherlock around to face the wall, out of the main spray of the shower head. He crowded against Sherlock’s back, kissing and biting his shoulder as he murmured, “I am so turned on right now. I don’t remember the last time I wanted you this badly.”

Sherlock grinned as he felt John’s thick, hard cock against the cleft of his backside and his own answering arousal. He knew John wouldn’t attempt penetration in the shower – they’d tried that in the past with less-than-satisfactory results. John reached around, pressing even more solidly as he grasped Sherlock’s cock with one hand and pressed the other hand firmly against his chest and pinched his nipple lightly. John stroked quickly, setting a fast pace from the start. His urgency communicated itself to Sherlock who was suddenly so aroused he felt like shouting. “God yes, John. That.”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the shower spray and braced his hands against the tiled wall. Water did not make a good lubricant, and he could certainly have used something now, but didn’t want to break the urgent mood to ask John to fetch lube. He felt John’s chest strong and firm against his back, his hips thrusting against his cleft; his cock sliding wetly up and down in a tempo matching his hand. He felt John’s mouth wet and hot against his shoulder, sucking and biting, leaving marks that would show for a week. The sensations coalesced with the steaming water to overwhelm Sherlock’s senses enough to shut down his brain for a few blissful moments. He reveled in sensation until he came with a cry, spurting against the wall as John stroked through his orgasm.

Forehead pressed against the tile, Sherlock panted to catch his breath. John stilled behind him. “Sherlock.” John’s voice was thick with arousal, communicating everything he wanted in those two syllables. Sherlock turned and dropped to his knees in the tight space, taking John’s flushed cock in one hand and his hip in the other, swallowing John down quick and hard, sucking and bobbing in a rhythm that matched John’s earlier pace. John groaned an endless stream of endearments mixed with swears, Sherlock’s name interspersed with ‘love’ and ‘fuck.’ John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s wet curls, pulling him closer until John was fully engulfed in the heat of Sherlock’s mouth and throat. He moved his hips fast and shallow as Sherlock swallowed and sucked. “Oh god Sherlock I’m gonna come. God yes … mmmm … I’m gonna come in your mouth.” And he did, thick hot liquid filling Sherlock’s mouth and dribbling down his chin. He held it there as John rode out his orgasm, then spit it into the shower drain and captured a mouthful of the spray, swishing and spitting again.

John collapsed to the floor of the shower. He leaned back against the wall with his knees up to fit the small space. Sherlock shifted to sit beside him, legs barely fitting. The spray fell like a light rain, comforting and warm. John began to laugh; Sherlock soon joined in. John chuckled as he tried to get a sentence out. “I think that’s a new record. Fastest shag we’ve ever had. What, five minutes from kitchen to orgasm?”

Sherlock chuckled, too. “I’d estimate six.” It felt good to sit in this ridiculous position and just have fun with John. It felt like the beginning of their friendship when they’d shared so many laughs during cases and after. It felt like the beginning of their partnership, when sex had been new and exciting and such a treat every time. He turned to John, gathering him in tight and kissed him tenderly. “That was good,” he said. John hummed his agreement against his lips and murmured, “Fantastic.”

The water started to cool so they washed quickly, knocking knees and elbows in their hurry to finish before exhausting the water heater. They toweled off and tumbled into bed. Sherlock tugged and pulled at the covers until they were underneath, then pulled them up to their necks. He slipped an arm around John and settled him against his chest. “We used to do this a lot. Why don’t we do this anymore?”

“What, have a quick shag without even making it to the bed?”

“That, and this. Being together after.” Sherlock threaded his fingers through John’s and rested them on his stomach. “Just being. Not doing anything. When did it all become about doing?”

John tilted his head to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I guess somewhere along the way the novelty wore off. Just … I don’t know, life just crowded in. Bills and errands and cooking and working. We let it get too important.”

“We … _I_ let it get more important than us. Than this.” Sherlock’s tone was solemn. The corners of his mouth turned down. “It’s not. This is more important than anything.”

John propped on his elbow so he could lean in place a tender kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “You’re right. This is more important.”

“I love you.” Sherlock blurted it quickly, blushing. Even though he felt it every minute of every day, he still had a hard time saying it aloud to John. He knew John wanted to hear it but that didn’t help it get around the lump in his throat.

The smile that curved John’s lips, the softness that came into his eyes, made Sherlock’s embarrassment evaporate. John knew what it cost his partner to say that. “I love you too. Always. Let’s just be for a little while. No doing. Just being.” John relaxed again, his head over Sherlock’s heart.

 _This_ This was what Sherlock ached for, craved, longed for these past few months. He felt so happy he could weep. John, _his John_ , the way things had been for so many years. Maybe John was right, that Sherlock did put his work before their relationship; that he thought more about the trivialities of life than he did about John. _I can change that. I can put John first._ Without realizing, Sherlock drifted off, exhausted from his late night case and relaxed from endorphins lingering in his system from sex. And from the blessed quiet in his Mind Palace – all alarms silenced at the moment.


	13. Declarations and denials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock acts on the plans he’d made during the Florida trip - plans to make John happy. The plans go horribly off track.
> 
> As codependency grows, the codependent partner tries to manage the failing relationship and ‘fix’ it. Codependency can manifest in very controlling behaviors that set up both partners in the relationship for hurt.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Extreme level of codependency, verbal abuse, belittling

The next morning Sherlock took the joint debit card out of his wallet and placed it at John’s spot at the kitchen table. John was out, probably grocery shopping or doing some other tedious errand – he’d been gone when Sherlock got out of bed. Sherlock also searched online for housekeeping services. He made a few calls and found one that could begin immediately. He scheduled the first cleaning for the following day. 

He mentally ticked off two items from his ‘changes to make John happy’ list. He closed his eyes and consulted his mental list. Four items to go: 1. Accept more cases, even if they were boring. 2. Give John a bigger role in dangerous cases, 3. Find Mary, and 4. Propose.

He couldn’t do anything about numbers one and two right now. Lestrade didn’t have anything dangerous in the hopper and nothing promising danger had come across his email or on John’s blog. Revise that – he could address point number one, and accept some of the pedestrian cases waiting on replies in his inbox. He’d do that today.

He could also contact his brother about any new leads on Mary and get out Mycroft’s file on her to look for anything he’d missed. He made a mental note to text his brother that morning.

Propose. That was a concrete, actionable plan. He could go shopping for rings, take John to dinner and ask him that evening. Why wait any longer? Things had been good between them since returning from Florida. The time felt right. John would be happy and hopefully his good mood would last a long while. Sherlock showered and dressed quickly; he wanted to vacate the flat before John got home, so he wouldn’t have to lie to explain where he was going. The day was mild so he bypassed his greatcoat and left the flat wearing only his suit jacket. 

He hailed a cab. When seated in the back of it, he pulled out his phone and exchanged texts with Mycroft. Mycroft’s organization had not been able to turn up any new information on Mary’s whereabouts. Mycroft agreed to put extra resources to the search and to drop off a copy of his file on Mary. By the time their text exchange was over the cab was pulling up in front of Tiffany’s. 

A sales associate who introduced himself as Henry met Sherlock at the door; he recognized him from the newspapers and said he was a fan of John’s blog. It sparked a warm feeling in Sherlock’s chest to be recognized and it also ensured top service. Sherlock explained that he was looking for matching men’s rings. Henry, a handsome, small man in his 40’s, beamed and congratulated him. Sherlock assured him that it was a surprise to John, so please don’t share the news. Henry promised Sherlock that Tiffany’s had a strict policy of confidentiality, so his news was safe. Sherlock browsed tray after tray of men’s rings but none seemed right for John and for him. Eventually Henry brought out a tray of unadorned platinum bands in varying widths. Sherlock found a band that he thought fit John – narrow in width but thick in depth with rounded edges. He picked out a slightly wider band of the same design for himself. Henry boxed the rings separately while Sherlock settled the bill and wished Sherlock the best of luck as he handed over the small bag. Sherlock smiled and gave him sincere thanks.

Next up was to make a reservation. He’d like to take John to an elegant restaurant but he knew John really didn’t appreciate being forced to wear a suit. Instead Sherlock settled for texting Angelo and asking him to reserve the window booth where it had all started so many years ago.

John was still out when Sherlock climbed the stairs to 221b. He found his laptop and quickly sorted his inbox, consenting to take on five cases that shouldn’t last more than a day apiece. He’d still have plenty of time for Lestrade if he called with a more interesting, dangerous case. 

Sherlock set about clearing away his messes away so the cleaning service would be able to do the deep cleaning the following day. He realized that John actually made very little impact on the flat – the mess truly was his own. _No wonder John gets tetchy – he’s a neat person and I’m a slob._ Having a weekly cleaning service really should take some of the stress out of their home. He stacked papers, moved dirty dishes and cups to the kitchen sink and binned papers he no longer needed. After three quarters of an hour he’d made a noticeable difference in the living room and kitchen.

It was nearly 6pm when John came in. He looked worn and threw himself into his armchair with a loud sigh without even greeting his partner.

Sherlock stood in the doorway between kitchen and living room; his arms hung undecidedly at his sides and he tapped his index fingers against his thumbs, a tell of his worried state. Finally he cleared his throat to get John’s attention.

“What, Sherlock?” John sounded irritated.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. “I thought we could … I thought you might like to go to Angleo’s tonight.”

John didn’t turn his head. He spoke to the empty space in front of him instead of turning to face Sherlock. “I’m tired. I just spent eight hours at the Yard cleaning up all the tedious paperwork from almost a month’s worth of cases. I’d rather stay in.”

Sherlock was glad he stood behind John’s chair; he could feel his features fall at John’s words. “If you’re tired, wouldn’t it be nice to dine out and relax?”

John sighed loudly. “God’s sake, don’t you ever listen to anything I say? I just said I’m too tired to go out.”

Carefully made plans lay in ruin at Sherlock’s feet. He was distracted from answering John’s comment by the doorbell. Instead of leaving it for Mrs. Hudson to answer, Sherlock used it as an excuse to escape John’s mood. He pounded down the steps and flung open the door to find Mycroft holding his umbrella in one hand and a thick file folder in the other. Sherlock was both grateful and annoyed that Mycroft had come to personally deliver the file full of Mary’s information. He stepped back and held the door open. Mycroft entered the foyer and paused at the bottom of the staircase. He held the thick file out toward Sherlock.

Sherlock took the file and tucked it under his arm. “Thank you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but didn’t remark on Sherlock’s uncharacteristic politeness. “I am hoping you can find some connection we’ve all missed. Some piece of the puzzle that will point us toward where Mrs. Watson is hiding.”

Sherlock looked down at the floor. “Not Mrs. Watson any longer.”

“That’s right, the divorce. I guess one could say she was never Mrs. Watson since Doctor Watson married a fiction, a figment of her imagination.” Mycroft glanced up the stairs. “Is the Doctor in?”

Sherlock nodded, still not able to meet his brother’s eye.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” Mycroft clasped Sherlock’s shoulder, his hand warm and firm. He squeezed gently. “Be well, brother. Be safe. Let me know when you need me.”

Sherlock finally raised his chin and met Mycroft’s eye. He blinked twice then nodded. Mycroft passed by and let himself out.

John was standing in the kitchen doorway with a mug in his hand when Sherlock returned. He glanced at the thick file suspiciously. “What’s that then? Another case from Mycroft?”

Sherlock avoided John’s question. He tried to pass by John and enter the kitchen but John stopped him with a hand on his elbow. John tilted his head in a gesture meant to convey a question and looked pointedly at the file in Sherlock’s hand. “Well?”

“It’s a… uhhh … it’s Mycroft’s file on Mary.”

“Mary! Why? What are you doing with that!” John’s face flushed, clearly angry. He glared at the file as if it would bite him.

“I’m going to look through it again. There’s always something. I missed something, I can feel it. Something that will lead us to her.”

John grabbed the file from Sherlock’s hand. He flung it onto the coffee table with so much force that the contents spilled. Papers slid across the wooden surface and fluttered to the floor. “Why the fuck did you bring that here? Hmmm? Into _our home._ My _home._ I don’t want it here. I don’t want anything of that bitch in this flat.” John’s shouting was so loud it hurt Sherlock’s ears.

“John! Calm down! I’m doing this for you. So you can feel safer. So we can all feel safe. I can help catch her. We can make sure she’s charged for all she did to you. Everything can be settled. We … you won’t have it hanging over your head!” Sherlock spoke rapidly. He hated the pleading note in his voice but didn’t seem to be able to control it.

“I manage to keep her out of my thoughts until _you_ bring her back into my head! If I wanted you to review that file, I would have _asked_ you to do it! I don’t. I want to forget that lying, murdering bitch and go on with my life. So fuck you very much, _again,_ Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Did it ever occur in your pea brain to _consult_ me before you make plans that concern me? Hmmm?” John’s eyes flashed as he raved and waved his hand roughly through the air.

Sherlock crouched to pick up the scattered papers. He couldn’t look at John. All the plans he’d made, all the things that were supposed to make John happy, to ease things between them, were going terribly, horribly wrong. He shoved the papers into the file folder and stood. “I’ll just take these…”

John cut him off before he could finish the sentence. “Damned right you will! Get that file the hell away from me!”

Sherlock bolted out the door, slamming it behind him. He thundered down the stairs then paused in the foyer. _Now what am I supposed to do with this? Ask Mrs. Hudson to keep it more me?_ He looked around the foyer. _Ah, yes, that will do._ In one stride he was at the small table Mrs. Hudson had placed below a wall mirror. It had a drawer below the table top. He’d never opened it before and hoped Mrs. Hudson didn’t keep any personal items in it. He jerked the drawer open quickly: a small torch, a phone book at least a decade old, a few taper candles, matchbooks. He shoved the detritus aside and placed the file in the back of the drawer, then pulled some of the clutter in front, to hide it. _It will have to do for now._

He opened the front door and stepped out. It was dark now and the air was chilled but he didn’t want to go back upstairs to get his coat. Sherlock decided to take a walk to give John a chance to calm down. He walked about a mile to one of his favorite news vendors, bought a pack of cigarettes, a paper cup of coffee, and a pack Altoids mints then headed home. He walked slowly, smoking, trying to drag out the walk in hopes that John would have cooled off by the time he returned. He ground out his second cigarette on the top of a bin a few blocks from Baker Street. The Altoids burned the inside of his cheek as he chewed five at once and swished the minty masticated paste around his mouth to chase out the smoke taste and smell. 

An hour had passed when he trudged up the seventeen stairs to home. John was seated on the sofa with a book in his lap. He’d obviously had a shower and donned fresh clothes. He stood and smiled sheepishly as Sherlock entered. “Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry. Let’s just … just try to start this evening over, OK? Earlier you said something about Angelos. I’m starving. Still want to go out?”  
Sherlock tilted his head and looked at John suspiciously. _Cooled off, then._ “All right, John, if that’s what you want.” 

“Yes, yes that is what I want. Let’s go." 

Sherlock worried at the ring box in his jacket pocket as they sat side by side in the back of a cab. He kept his face turned toward the window, hoping that John didn’t notice the smell of smoke on his breath and clothing. _Should I go ahead with my plan?_ All his other plans had burst into flame so far today. Maybe wait until a better time? _Let’s see how dinner goes._

“I hired a housekeeping service today.” Sherlock said it softly, still looking out the window. 

“You did what?” John sounded interested, not upset. 

“I called a housecleaning service. They can come weekly to do the heavy cleaning in the flat. I thought it would free up our time and make it easier to keep the place clean.” Sherlock chanced a glance at John. 

John nodded. “Okay. That’s probably a good idea. I’m sure we can work it into the budget somehow.” 

Sherlock stifled a sigh of relief. “I’m going to pay for it. I want to make up for … for being so slovenly.” 

John huffed a laugh. “It’s never bothered you before.” 

“But it does bother you. I realized just how much of the mess is mine. Well, all of it, actually. I want to try to make home a better place for you, John. For both of us.” 

John smiled and reached for Sherlock’s hand and gave it a squeeze. He laced their hands together and rested them on the seat between them. Sherlock was relieved he’d sat on the right side of the cab so John held his left hand, not the right one he’d held cigarettes with. He resolved to scrub his hands as soon as they arrived to rid the lingering evidence. 

Angelo greeted them warmly as always. He sat for a few minutes chatting with his favorite consulting detective and blogger. The atmosphere was warm and relaxed and Sherlock felt the tension leaving his mind and body. Conversation flowed easily between the partners during dinner. Angelo sent over a slice of tiramisu for them to share after their dinner plates were cleared. Sherlock’s molar twinged again while eating the sweet, cold desert. 

Sherlock fiddled with the ring box in his pocket again. _Is the time right? No way out but through._ He drew out the box and set it on the table in front of John, slowly prying the lid open as he spoke. “John, you know I love you more than any other person on the planet. You would make me the happiest man on Earth if you say you’ll marry me.” 

John sat, mouth open in shock, for the length of several heartbeats. He snapped his jaw closed and drew in a long breath through his nose. “Sherlock, you can’t be serious.” John’s voice sounded high with strain. 

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock answered in a rush. “John you’re an honorable man, a traditional man, an officer who likes to do things right…” 

John cut off the tumble of his words. “Sherlock, please. Stop. Just stop.” 

“But John, this will make me … make you happy. I want you to be happy.” Sherlock heard the note of hysteria in his voice. _Surely this plan wasn’t going to crash and burn, too!_

John looked down at the ring glinting softly in the candle light. His face was unreadable as he stared for a very long time. He began speaking while still looking at the ring. “Sherlock, I appreciate your gesture. I really do. But marriage wasn’t … it wasn’t good for me. Even apart from my wife the assassin and a murderer, the everyday part of marriage wasn’t good. I didn’t like being married. I … I didn’t like feeling bound, feeling tied. It was suffocating. Things are fine between us. Please, let’s not complicate it with rings and a marriage certificate.” He reached out and softly closed the ring box. 

Cheeks flaming, Sherlock reached for the box and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t meet John’s eyes; he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was mortified and felt like he might cry from frustration and embarrassment. 

John reached for his hand under the table. He brought it to his lips and kissed each of Sherlock’s knuckles. “It’s okay, love. Please, don’t be upset. Let’s just leave things as they are.” 

Sherlock just stared at John, still speechless. How could he endure a cab ride home, the climb to the flat, lying in bed beside this man who had so thoroughly rejected everything he’d tried to do for him today? _Well, not everything. He did agree to the housekeeping service._ How had he been so thoroughly and horribly wrong about ways to make John happy? 

Sherlock sighed, leaned his elbow on the table and dropped his face into his large hand, rubbing his temples with thumb and fingers. He realized his head ached something fierce. _That fucking alarm again._ The kitchen of his mind palace was littered with wooden shards where the special locker he’d built for the alarm was blown apart by John’s words. 


	14. Losing a part of himself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock experiences a long-term consequence from the physical abuse that he's received at John's hands. He realizes, finally, the harm he's suffered.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Detailed description of a dentist visit and a dental injury; codependence; after effects of physical assualt

Sherlock could put it off no longer. He finally made an appointment with his dentist to have the twinge in his upper rear molar checked out. The tooth had been twinging for a few weeks, especially when he ate something hot or cold. Sherlock hated going to the dentist, not because he was afraid of dentists or worried about pain, but because it was so abysmally _boring._ He was able to book the final appointment slot of the day – his favorite. It was his favorite because the dental office staff was eager to get home so they didn’t bother with pedestrian chit-chat.

The waiting room was mercifully empty when Sherlock arrived. He checked in with the receptionist then took a seat. The chair was uncomfortable, too small for his lanky frame, the back too low and the seat too shallow. He twisted to and fro trying to get comfortable, finally giving up and slouching into the ugly green upholstery. He dug his mobile from his coat pocket and passed the time browsing Twitter.

A few minutes later the dental assistant came to get him with chart in hand. She wore shocking pink scrubs and safety goggles. Her bleached-blonde hair was in a loose, messy ponytail and the amount of makeup on her face could have kept the entire squad of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders supplied for a week. “Mr. Holmes, you’re up next. Let’s take a look at that bothersome tooth.” Her tone was overbright and her grin was near-terrifying. _Good god, isn’t a visit to the dentist bad enough without being treated by a Barbie doll?_

He took off his coat, and hung it on a hook provided in the examination cubicle. He stretched back in the treatment chair with his feet hanging off the end. Dental Assistant Barbie fastened a paper bib around his neck. She sat on a rolling stool beside him and flipped open the chart. “So, tell me, what’s the problem?” she asked brightly.

“Well, molar 16 is giving me twinges lately, especially when I eat something that’s hot or cold.”

Barbie slipped on her caring concerned face. “When did it start? Was it a sudden onset, or did these twinges develop over time?”

Sherlock took a moment to consider. “A few weeks ago. Three, maybe four weeks. I’d say it was sudden. I never noticed any pain in the tooth before that time.”

She made a few notes in the chart. “Any accidents, trauma, injury? Automobile accident, sudden blow to the head?” She wasn’t looking at Sherlock, still making notes in her chart. Obviously these were standard questions she could spout without thinking.

Sherlock froze. _Sudden blows to the head._ Blow to the head. Blow. To. The. Head. _Oh!_ Sherlock winced, remembering that night, his cheek being driven into the hardwood floor of the living room with such force. The shock. One minute he’d been standing, facing John, arguing with him as was their near-constant habit now days. The next he was face down on the floor of their living room, wondering how he’d gotten there, with John straddling his legs. The contusion, the bruise that had bloomed and lasted for days – ugly, green, purple, red and brown. It had seemed to slide down his face as it faded, sinking toward his jaw like melting wax.

Barbie’s pen remained poised over the chart. She glanced at him in confusion, waiting for him to answer. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Hhmmm, yes. A blow to the head.” His voice was strained. He hoped she didn’t ask for details.

“Automobile accident? Occupational injury?” She asked, sounding like she was rattling off a list.

“No, neither,” Sherlock replied levelly, looking off into middle-space over her left shoulder. “A … mmm … an unfortunate accident at home.”

Barbie nodded. “So, no auto insurance or occupational injury claim?”

Sherlock looked confused. “No, nothing of that sort.”

“We always ask in cases of tooth injury. Sometimes there is paperwork to file with auto insurance or occupational injury boards.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. _I don’t think there’s a board to deal with injuries like this._

“Open up then, Mr. Holmes, let’s have a look.”

Sherlock relaxed back against the vinyl – covered head pillow and opened wide. The dental assistant poked at his tooth and the surrounding gum tissue with a sharp instrument, then spun the tool in her hand and tapped on the tooth with the blunt handle. He winced at the tapping – it _hurt._ “There we go, there’s the culprit. Number 16, just as you said. Upper posterior molar. Let’s get a film of it, shall we?”

The assistant fluttered about the cubicle, placing a lead apron over Sherlock’s torso, positioning the x-ray holder between Sherlock’s teeth then positioning the x-ray machine against his cheek. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying to suppress the gag reflex the hard plastic holder evoked. She stepped out and Sherlock heard a brief buzz from the x-ray machine. Immediately after it ended, he sat up and snatched the holder out of his mouth, gagging. Barbie made sympathetic sounds as she came back into the cubicle. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes, that device can be uncomfortable.” She took the holder out of his hand and left the cubicle.

Sherlock closed his eyes while he waited for her to return. He drifted, not really thinking of anything. It was a distressing habit he’d developed recently. Sherlock Holmes did not _drift_ \- unless he did. He tried to call up enough energy to care, but couldn’t quite. It was a relief to just sit, breathe, and just be. He wasn’t sure how long he’d drifted when he heard rustling at the door of the cubicle.

Dr. Jacobs, the dentist, entered followed by the dental assistant. “Sherlock, always a pleasure,” he said jovially, holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake. “I do wish we were visiting under happier circumstances. My assistant tells me you had a blow, injured your molar.” Sherlock nodded. “Unfortunately, the tooth has abscessed. Take a look.” He turned the iPad he was holding so Sherlock could see the digital x-ray image, already knowing that Sherlock was a clinician and would want to see himself.

Sherlock took the iPad. “See, here, the white spot at the tip of the root? There, root two,” Dr. Jacobs pointed out the white spot with the tip of a sharp instrument. “See also this white line running down the middle of the root?” He traced the faint white line with the instrument. “That shows me the root has died. It’s becoming infected. That’s where your twinge is coming from.”

Sherlock frowned. Infected molar, from a blow to the maxilla. This didn’t sound promising. “Treatment options?” he asked.

Dr. Jacobs sighed. “I will prescribe an antibiotic to take care of the infection, but I’m afraid abscessed teeth don’t heal. The best outcome would be root canal treatment followed by a porcelain crown. The worst would be to lose the tooth.” Dr. Jacobs paused. When Sherlock didn’t ask a question, he continued. “Normally I’d suggest trying the root canal first. It’s always best to save a tooth when possible. But look here, see these faint white lines?” He traced the thread-like patterns that branched out from the root on the image. “Those are called auxiliary canals. Everyone has them, some more than others. When we do a root canal, we remove the dead nerves from the tooth roots. These smaller roots that come off the large roots are like the roots of a tree, branching off the main tap root. It’s impossible to seal them all, even under the best of circumstances. And you, Sherlock, are one of the unlucky few that have more auxiliary roots than average. We can try root canal treatment first, but I’ve seen this before. Patients have tried and ended up having treatment two or three more times until eventually I have to pull the tooth. I’ll try that if you’d like, but I don’t recommend it. I’m sorry but your best option is to just extract the tooth now.”

Dr. Jacobs paused, clearly waiting for a response from his patient. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Preserving the tooth, that’s … mmm. Well, if that’s not what you’d recommend then let’s get it over with.” Dr. Jacobs nodded slightly at his assistant. She left the cubicle. Sherlock could hear the heels of her practical clogs retreat down the hall.

The dentist continued, “The good news, if there is any, is that losing the final molar won’t affect your other teeth. They won’t shift. It also won’t affect your ability to chew. And it’s so far back in your mouth, you can smile as wide as you want and it still won’t be seen. If you have to lose a tooth then number 16 is the one to let go.”

Dr. Jacobs pressed the button to bring Sherlock’s chair upright and gestured to Sherlock that he could take off the paper bib. He did. Dr. Jacobs looked at Sherlock gravely and began, “Sherlock, I’m not a therapist and I’m hardly your best friend. But I have known you for many years, and I hope you’d at least consider me an acquaintance, maybe even a casual friend. So, I need to ask, just what sort of household accident would lead to you striking your mandible so hard it caused your molar to die?”

Sherlock blinked at the dentist then looked down at the paper bib crumpled in his hands. He had to clear this throat twice before he could speak, and still he didn’t raise his eyes. “It was nothing. Nothing of consequence, just a stupid accident.”

Dr. Jacobs remained still for a few minutes, just looking at Sherlock. Finally he spoke, “Sherlock, I see all kinds of things in my practice. I recognize patterns. Patterns of things that can cause certain dental conditions. People who don’t floss get gingivitis. People with bulimia get worn enamel on the back of their teeth. And people who are struck in the face get molar abscesses.”

Sherlock tried to laugh and rolled his eyes. “You know that my occupation is rather hazardous. I’m often punched, jumped, assaulted. I can’t pinpoint just one incident that might have lead to this tooth injury.”

Dr. Jacobs seemed satisfied with that response. He relaxed and asked Sherlock if he had any questions about the extraction. They discussed the details of the procedure and the dentist wrote antibiotic and painkiller prescriptions and handed them over. Barbie returned with a painkiller tablet in a tiny white paper cup in one hand and a larger paper cup of water in the other. Sherlock took the tablet and washed it down then relaxed back into the cramped treatment chair. Barbie reclined the chair while Dr. Jacobs prepared Novocain shots.

The actual extraction wasn’t too terrible. The tooth was already loose in its socket, probably as a result of the impact and further loosened by the infection. Dr. Jacobs placed the numbing shots precisely so Sherlock felt nothing other than pressure that released when the tooth came free. In a little more than half an hour Sherlock was on his way, minus one molar. He held a wad of cotton wool between his teeth; the empty socket was bleeding freely.

He hadn’t actually _lied_ to the dentist. His work was hazardous – he had often been assaulted while trailing suspects. But this was different. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach because he could pinpoint the incident that had led to the tooth pain. The awful bruise had finally faded and the scab had healed, but he was finding it impossible to delete the memory of the night John so viciously pounded his face into the floor from his memory.

The alarm in his mind palace was now a constant fixture on the kitchen counter. It was just a matter of how loud it sounded from day to day, or even minute to minute. And how effective Sherlock had become at blocking it out. He didn’t even bother putting it back into the cabinet any longer. It would just blow the cabinet apart, anyway, so it wasn’t worth the effort.


	15. Facing Facts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up to what has been going on in his relationship with John. The awakening is painful so Sherlock seeks some chemical relief. He realizes that escaping into drugs won't solve the problem.
> 
> Trigger warning: Facing up to abusive relationship, facing up to codependency, detailed description of drug purchase

Sherlock stood on the pavement outside the dentist’s office, leaning over with his hands on his knees, taking in great gulps of air. He felt like he was drowning, suffocating, there was a great lump lodged in his throat causing air to be unable to reach the alveoli in his lungs. 

_John. **John** had done this. _ It was as a direct result of John’s actions that Sherlock stood hunched, a wad of cotton wool stuck between his teeth, a socket gaping empty in his gum, jaw numb, head swimming from painkiller, stomach roiling from antibiotics taken on an empty stomach. Sherlock looked down at the hands on his knees. His hands, that he took such pride in. Many people had called them musician’s hands, violinist’s hands, artist’s hands over the years. And he’d secretly preened, glad to have other people confirm his own vanity of his beautiful hands. Those hands were skeletal now, wasted, tendons standing out like ropes under the skin that seemed too loose. When was the last time he’d eaten? He couldn’t remember. And shaking. His once-lovely hands were shaking against his knees, trembling on the fine fabric of his trousers. It made him sad, sad that he’d neglected his body, his hands, for so long.

He straightened and took a deep breath. He couldn’t have the dentist’s staff seeing him falling apart right outside their window. He walked to the corner, crossed the street then hailed a cab.

Once seated he leaned his head against the cheap vinyl of the seat. His breath came easier now – the panic had subsided a little. He needed to think. His mind had been so muddled these last few months, so clogged with concerns over John that it felt like he was trying to think around a chunk of concrete in his brain. He needed clarity, he needed to connect with his mind, with the old Sherlock Holmes, the one John had called amazing and brilliant the first time they’d shared a cab. He leaned forward and asked the cabbie to change directions, gave him the name of a street in a less illustrious part of London. A street where he knew he could connect with what he wanted, what he _needed_ to restore clear thinking he so desperately needed now.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His stomach lurched, continuing to protest the antibiotic pill the dentist had insisted he’d swallow before the procedure began. God, he felt sick. He knew he’d feel better if he stopped to eat something but he didn’t want to delay. He needed to think more than he needed food. He’d eat later. 

His head rolled to the side as the cab took a corner a little too sharply. He let it, enjoying the loose feeling, like his head could roll right off his neck if he’d just allow it. God, that would be nice, to be divorced from this mind, to just be a body existing in space, not thinking, not worrying, not planning and scheming and deducing. He realized suddenly that he had a pounding headache. He’d managed to block it out, he didn’t know for how long. Sensations seemed to swim for a second, tilting sharply then settling back into their proper plane.

And that _fucking alarm_ – no wonder his head ached!. Sirens were blaring, bells ringing, a cacophony of sound that seemed to be both inside and outside his mind, all around him at once. He cracked one eyelid to look at the back of the cabbie’s head. He appeared normal, not reacting to any unexpected loud noises. Okay then, the noise was only inside Sherlock’s head. Mind palace alarm, unable to be contained any longer, not in the cabinet or the kitchen but in the entirety of the palace. Sherlock knew something that would silence the alarm. It called to him, a siren’s song from back alleys and dark parks, promising release with just a small black lump, a spoon, his lighter, his belt and a needle. He wanted it so badly, wanted the release and the pause and the blessed nothingness that came almost instantly after the sting of the needle. He could … he could do it between his toes, John would never notice the small red dot there. Call John, tell him he was needed out of town for a case, make something up that would be a believable excuse for him to be absent from home overnight, or even a few days. God, he wanted it, aching to just have a few hours of relief from his own being-ness, his own mind, from being Sherlock Holmes, from being in his own skin.

But that wasn’t what he needed. Now, _right now_ , he needed to think clearly, not to escape. He needed to face facts.

Fact: John was not the same man he’d fallen in love with. (A tear slipped out and ran into his hair at this thought.) John was bitter, negative, brittle around the edges. John hardly resembled the man Sherlock had met in the Bart’s lab so many years ago.

Fact: By blaming Sherlock for every bad thing in his life, John fed bitterness and resentment toward Sherlock that had soured his soul. It was also smothering Sherlock’s soul.

Fact John was abusive. (Another tear slid down Sherlock’s temple.) The word hurt, it tore through Sherlock’s body like razor blades. Abusive, abuser, abuse. John _abused_ Sherlock. John was an abuser. _Domestic violence – how common._ Sherlock’s stomach lurched at the thought and he stifled the urge to retch with difficulty. How did he, Sherlock Holmes, graduate chemist from Cambridge, the world’s only consulting detective, the man who’d taken down Moriarity’s worldwide criminal network in less than two years almost single-handedly, ever get to this place? How did he, Sherlock, become a victim? A small cry escaped his throat as the word entered his mind. _Victim._ He opened his eyes and glanced at the cabbie to see if he’d heard. If he did hear, the cabbie kept his eyes on the road and studiously kept his attention ahead, not on the man crumbling to pieces in the back seat. _Good._ Sherlock took long, even breaths through his nose, releasing them through his mouth. He would not be sick. _He would not._ It was bad enough being a victim of domestic violence (stomach churns again) – he would not add the humiliation of vomiting at the kerb.

Fact: Sherlock had been doing mental gymnastics for over a year, since the first twinge of alarm had sounded in his mind that first day that John had come home from work and verbally attacked him. Sherlock had turned blame on himself, he’d accepted John’s blame, he’d twisted and contorted his thoughts until there was no logic left in his muddled brain. He’d tried, tried so hard, to keep John happy. He’d adjusted his own behavior to try to avoid anything that would set John off. He’d tried, and tried, and tried until he was a ghost of his former self. And when everything he had tried failed, he’d accepted sole responsibility for the failure instead of seeing clearly that John was the one with the problem. Sherlock had a problem, too: his over reliance on John. His refusal to let himself _see_. No, he saw, but he would not let himself observe. He refused to observe what was glaring: he was falling apart because John was falling more and more into darkness.

Fact: Sherlock needed to … what? _Get away._ Sherlock’s frame jerked at the thought. No, he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t live without John. Surely there was a way. A way to make John see, to make John observe how his behavior was killing Sherlock. Because John would never want to do this, surely? He’d never intentionally harm Sherlock, would he?

He knew what he must do but he didn’t want to do it. He knew that once he made the phone call, there was no turning back. He was starting a course that would end with him alone again. Working alone, eating alone, living alone. Alone. Again. Perhaps for always. Always, always alone. He squeezed his lashes together to contain the tears that sprang to his eyes at the thought. He was not going to cry. He was not. When he’d gotten control of himself, he finally fished in his coat pocket for his phone. He pulled it out with a shaking hand and pulled up his brother’s number. His thumb hovered over the number. This one phone call would change the course of not just his life, but John’s, too.

While his thumb still hovered, the cab pulled over. Sherlock sighed and returned the phone to his pocket. The street was dark, run down with many boarded up, abandoned houses. Sherlock passed cash to the cabbie then got out. He straightened his coat as the cab pulled away; he looked around for the alley he remembered. He headed down the block, ducking quickly into the darkness of the narrow passageway. A door was recessed in the wall half way down. Sherlock rapped and the door cracked open. The man behind the door recognized his profile and opened the door wider. Sherlock stepped into a shabby living room. An even shabbier collection of people reposed on the tattered furniture: junkies, strung out. A slightly cleaner man sat in the corner reading a newspaper. He jerked his chin at Sherlock, indicating he should approach.

It took less than five minutes – his dealer knew what Sherlock wanted. He pulled a flat wooden box from under his chair and handed a baggie to Sherlock. Sherlock handed over a wad of cash and pocketed the cellophane bag. Sherlock knew he could ask for a needle, too, but why wait? He hated doing blow – the sting in his nose, the burn after – but he needed results quick, no time to dilute and prepare a needle. Sherlock turned without saying goodbye; he shut the door gently behind as he exited.

He strode away quickly, seeking further darkness for his fix. He’d have to take the Tube home; cabs didn’t patrol this rough neighborhood much during the day and certainly not after dark. He ducked under a fire escape and leaned against the rough brick wall. His jaw hurt like a bitch but at least the bleeding had stopped. The painkiller he’d taken before the procedure and the shots of novocaine in his jaw were wearing off. 

And then it hit him, the knowing he was trying to run away from; the knowing that he couldn’t run fast enough, or drug hard enough, to avoid. John didn’t love him. He didn’t. Love is a verb, not a noun. John saying he loves doesn’t mean he does love. Love as a verb is an action word. _Loving actions … it’s been a while._

This new knowing, this self awareness breaking through the walls of denial he’d so carefully built – it hurt. **It _hurt._** Knowing, allowing himself to know, that the person he loved best wasn’t that same person any more, that that man had somehow been reshaped into a stranger through bitterness and blaming. A stranger whose heart wasn’t ruled by love any more, but hate. Hate toward the world, hate at his fate and mostly hate toward his partner. Sherlock hung his head under the weight of it all. John truly did not love him. The pain in his chest nearly rent him in two. Sherlock had always considered literary devices such as breaking hearts pure rubbish, but now he felt it – his heart was breaking to pieces, tiny sharp shards filling the space reserved between his lungs for a pliable, beating heart. The sharp edges of this new organ cut with every beat and he felt his life force draining away inside but somehow he continued to live. How could he live and breathe when his heart lay in broken pieces under his sternum?

He looked at the supplies in his hands: wallet, rolled note, and cellophane baggie of cocaine. It struck him as ridiculous that he ever thought he could avoid the knowing through this ludicrous assembly of stuff. Cocaine wouldn’t help him think any more clearly. Clear-thinking was already dawning through the cracks in his self delusion, through the lies he’d been telling himself for months; it was raw and painful and it hurt. The drug in his hands couldn’t soothe or change any of that. Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, great gales echoing off the walls of the alley, feeling he was cracking, coming apart under the weight of his own awareness. He quieted, shook his head and pocketed the supplies. Getting high suddenly didn’t seem so urgent. He decided to walk home to clear his head instead of chasing the artificial clarity of cocaine. He would stop off and buy a pack of cigarettes. He would at least allow himself the small comfort of a smoke.

One cigarette turned into two turned into half the pack. Sherlock felt a little light-headed by the time he inserted his key into the front door of 221 Baker Street. It had been a long while since he’d chain-smoked ten cigarettes. He chewed two sticks of chewing gum – god, how he hated the feeling of gum between his teeth - but he didn’t want to set John off by reeking of smoke. Chewing the gum had also caused the empty tooth socket to bleed again so he shoved a wad of cotton wool between his molars and bit down. He just had to hope the night air had dissipated the smell from his coat enough to escape John’s notice.

***X***X***

John was still up when Sherlock got home near 11pm, seated at one end of the sofa reading a paperback book. Sherlock hung up his coat wearily. The long walk hadn’t done much to clear his head. In fact, he felt even worse for it. His jaw throbbed; he wished he’d filled the prescription for painkillers before rushing off to find cocaine. Now he’d have to wait until the morning. The night didn’t look promising. Sherlock shed his jacket and threw it over his chair. He wearily dropped to the sofa then kicked off his shoes. He nudged his toes under John’s thigh.

“Christ, Sherlock, you look like hell. What happened? Another case you didn’t tell me about? Did someone take a cheap shot at your face? Your jaw’s quite swollen.” John sounded annoyed.

“No new case, John. I had a dental appointment. I …” Sherlock’s chest tightened at the thought of the molar and why it had died. “I had an abscessed molar.”

John made a sympathetic noise. “That’s extremely painful. Did the dentist start the root canal today? Is that why your jaw’s so swollen?”

“No, the tooth had some irregular canals that meant root canal treatment was not feasible. Dr. Jacobs extracted it. He said it won’t have long term impact on my bite and other teeth since it’s the posterior molar.”

John pursed his lips and blew softly through them. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. That’s … that’s just terrible. Let me get you an ice pack for your jaw.”

Sherlock nodded slightly. “I forgot to fill the prescription for painkillers before the chemist's closed. It’s starting to throb now. The dose I took at the dental office has worn off.”

John laid a warm hand on Sherlock’s ankle then rose and headed toward the kitchen to fetch the ice. He spoke over his shoulder, “There’s a 24 hour chemist's about half an hour away. Would you like me to go fill the prescription for you?”

Sherlock looked at John, incredulous. “You’d do that for me?”

John nodded, starting to look cross. “Of course I would. You’re in pain and the longer you wait the harder it is to get the pain under control. Of course I’ll go get your pain pills.”

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the prescription slips Dr. Jacobs gave him earlier. “There’s also a prescription for an antibiotic. Can you fill both?”

John returned with an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel. He handed it to Sherlock then bent to put on his shoes. He shrugged into his coat and turned toward Sherlock with a wrinkle across the bridge of his nose, obviously puzzled. “Where have you been so late? Doesn’t the dental office close at 6?”

“I had the last appointment of the day and … I’ve been walking.”

“Walking, for hours, after having a molar pulled? And it didn’t occur to you to stop off at a chemist's?” John looked incredulous. “I know you’re good at ignoring pain but Jesus, Sherlock, that’s a new low of ignoring your own needs.”

Sherlock just hummed in response. He really was exhausted and in pain, both physical and mental, and he really just wanted John to go so he shut his eyes. He heard John close the door as he went out, then his soft footsteps on the stairs, taking care to be quiet so he didn’t wake Mrs. Hudson. _At least John was too focused on my tooth to notice the smell of smoke._

He turned over to face the back of the sofa and adjusted the ice pack so it was between the pillow and his jaw. As exhausted as he was, he doubted he could sleep. The alarm in his mind palace was too loud to allow him to drop off.


	16. Comes a time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John smells smoke on Sherlock’s coat and fishes in the pocket for cigarettes. He finds the cocaine. Everything that has been brewing for the last year comes to a head. 
> 
> (Chapter title from Neil Young)
> 
> Trigger warnings: detailed description of assault, detailed description of injuries resulting from assault

John returned about midnight with Sherlock’s pain medication and antibiotics. The pain pill, along with the ice he’d been holding on his jaw, allowed Sherlock to get some much-needed sleep. His mouth was still store the next morning but John kept him plied with anti inflammatory and pain medications. By evening Sherlock was feeling better so John thought it was safe to go out for groceries. He lifted his coat off the wall hook and wrinkled his nose. “Sherlock, have you been smoking?” Sherlock’s coat hung on the hook next to John’s, where he’d left it the prior evening.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, still in pyjamas and dressing gown. He opened his eyes and looked at John sharply.

“Your coat reeks. What did you do, chain smoke half a pack on the way home from the dentist?” John sounded irritated. He started to reach into the pocket of Sherlock’s greatcoat. “I’m throwing your fucking cigarettes in the bin. Or I should make you eat the rest of the pack, like a teenager caught by his mum.”

Sherlock leaped up from the sofa when he realized he’d left everything he’d bought the night before in his coat pocket. “John! Wait!”

John pulled his hand out of the coat pocket. He held the crumpled cigarette pack and the cellophane baggie of cocaine. He stared at the items in his hand for a long moment. He glanced up at Sherlock with shock, pain and confusion showing clearly in his gaze.

“Sherlock?”

“It’s not what you think John! I didn’t…I didn’t use. I didn’t!”

A red flush crept from John’s collar, up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Sherlock you fucking idiot. What the fuck is this?”

Sherlock stood by the sofa, vibrating with stress. He took a step toward John. Words tumbled out in a chaotic stream as he tried to head off John’s anger. “I bought it yesterday after the dentist. I needed … I wanted some relief. I needed to think straight. But I didn’t. I walked home, all the way across town instead. I didn’t use. I smoked instead. I didn’t use.”

John’s hands trembled. He clutched them into fists, crushing the cigarettes and the cocaine bag. “Sherlock, has it occurred to you that people come to you with their cases because they think you can fix things for them? That you see things they can’t see? Do you really think anyone will come to a fucking _junkie_ for detective work?” John’s low, icy tone frightened Sherlock more than a shout.

“John, I didn’t. I’m not a junkie. I didn’t use, I swear to you, I’m clean.” Sherlock pleaded, voice nearly a whine.

John cracked, shouting so loud the sound assaulted Sherlock’s ears. “You stupid fucker! It’s not just your own career you’re fucking with, Sherlock! It’s mine now, too, nitwit! No one will come to John Watson, ex officer, ex doctor for detective work! They come for Sherlock Holmes, Mr. As-Bright-As-They-Come! They come for _you_. I’m just the side kick, the ride-along. If word gets out that Sherlock My-Brain-Is-Bigger-Than-Yours Holmes is a filthy druggie, we’re _both_ out on the street! You have a family trust fund so why the fuck should you care, but the work is all I have now. I can’t be an army officer, I can’t be a doctor. _It’s all I can do._ So don’t you dare fuck that up for me you selfish bastard!”

“John, John! Listen to me, I didn’t. I didn’t use the coke. Really, I …”

Sherlock suddenly found himself laying flat on his back, looking up at the crack in the plaster of the living room ceiling. He had no idea of how he got there until he felt the sharp point of John’s elbow connecting with his sternum as John landed an elbow drop in the middle of his chest. It knocked the wind out of Sherlock. He choked and gasped, unable to catch his breath.

Before Sherlock could even process what happened, John was on him, straddling his waist, landing blow after blow. To his jaw, his nose, his temple, the side of his head, his ear – blows rained down, snapping Sherlock’s head back and forth. Sherlock heard screaming. It was a distant sound and he wondered if someone was also being assaulted on the pavement out in front of 221B. His face felt wet and his mouth was full of the sickly metallic taste of blood. His arms were pinned below John’s knees; he was completely helpless with no way to defend himself. 

Sherlock felt John wrap both hands around his neck, just below his Adam’s apple, and squeeze _hard_. John’s mouth was moving, his face contorted with rage, but Sherlock couldn’t hear his words; his ears were filled with a roaring noise. Sherlock tried to buck up against John’s weight but his dwindling oxygen supply didn’t hold out. His legs kicked once then he lay still, the feeling of hands cutting off his breath overtaking all other sensations. The last thought he had before blacking out was wonder that it was _John_ who killed him.

 

***X***X***

 

Sherlock came to when a cool rag mopped his face. He opened his eyes to find his brother kneeling over him, wiping his face with a wet flannel. “Mycroft?” he croaked.

“Shhh, Sherlock. Just relax. A medical team is nearly here. You’re safe now, just don’t move.” Mycroft’s expression was tender and voice soft.

Sherlock struggled to sit but his brother held him gently by the shoulder, pressing him back onto the hard wooden floor. “Please, Sherlock, stay still until the doctor arrives. You may have spinal injuries. Relax, it won’t be long.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. His ears were still filled with a rushing noise like a fast-running stream about to overflow its banks. He felt numb, blessedly numb, and cold and he could still taste blood on his tongue. He relaxed into the blackness that was fighting to overtake his mind.

 

***X***X***

 

The next time he came to, Sherlock was lying in his own bed. His room was dark but faint light from the hall came through the open doorway. He dimly noted that he was stripped to his pants and covered only by a sheet. He also noted an IV was taped down to the back of his left hand. It was connected to a bag held high on a stainless steel stand beside the bed.

Sherlock was cold. He wanted to reach down and pull the duvet over himself but blacked out again before he could muster the energy.

 

***X***X***

 

Sherlock woke to full daylight. Every muscle in his body hurt but his bladder was painfully full, so he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and tried to stand up. His legs immediately buckled; he shouted as he fell and grabbed the edge of the mattress, thankfully avoiding falling to the floor.

Mycroft came through the doorway followed by a very pretty young woman of Indian descent. He threaded an arm around Sherlock’s waist and helped him stand. “Sherlock, this is Dr. Gupta. She works for my agency, caring for injured agents. She’s been here with us all night. Dr. Gupta, my brother, Sherlock Holmes.” Dr. Gupta appeared bright-eyed and fresh but Mycroft was quite the opposite. He was in his shirtsleeves with his cuffs rolled up above his elbows. His white shirt was rumpled and spotted with rust colored stains and his suit trousers showed similar stains on the olive green wool. He was barefoot, which Sherlock thought vaguely odd. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his brother’s bare feet.

Sherlock tried to nod a greeting but his neck was too sore to bend more than an inch. “Mycroft, can you help me to the loo?” His voice shocked him – it sounded reedy, gravely and strained all at the same time.

His brother half-carried Sherlock into the ensuite, rolling the IV stand beside them. He helped him lower his pants and seated him on the toilet before stepping out. Sherlock tried to stand again when he was done using the facilities. He hauled himself up by bracing both arms, stiff-arm, on the sink. His head swam with pain; his breath came in shallow gasps. Expanding his ribs more than a centimeter caused blinding pain.

What he saw in the mirror shocked even him - and he had seen the most shocking crime scenes London had to offer. His face was a mass of black, blue and purple bruises. Not an inch of skin escaped the bruising. Both eyes were swollen to slits. A diagonal cut bisected his left eyebrow about a quarter of the way in from the tapered end with a dark red scab. Blood streaked his hairline; his hair was matted with it and the whorls of both ears held crusted traces of it. His nose was grossly swollen under the bruises. _Obviously broken._ Both lips were swollen and bruised. A cut bisected the right side of his lower lip, beginning to scab over. Even more shocking were the bruises on his neck – the clear prints of two smaller-than-average men’s hands. His Adam’s apple looked larger than usual.

Pain bloomed across his back. He tried to turn and look in the mirror but his neck was too sore to twist far enough to see his back in the reflection. Apparently he’d landed on something when he hit the floor. Something that cut, deeply from the pulling at his shoulder blades. He also felt the pull of medical tape. _Do I feel stitches, too?_ Sherlock’s arms were beginning to shake from the strain of bearing his weight. He involuntarily made a strangled sound. Mycroft stepped through the doorway and placed his arm firmly around Sherlock’s waist. “Back to bed, brother. We can’t have you falling and causing further damage.”

Crisp white sheets waited on the freshly-remade bed. Either the doctor had changed the sheets or Mrs. Hudson had been up and Sherlock had been too preoccupied studying his reflection to notice. Sherlock sank gratefully back into the mattress. Mycroft arranged the IV stand and ensured the tubing was straight. He sat on the edge of the bed and offered Sherlock a glass of water with a bent straw but his back was too painful to allow him to sit up to drink. Mycroft leaned sideways and pulled his brother up with a hand between his shoulder blades, then gently lowered him back down when the glass was empty.

Dr. Gupta entered the bedroom pushing a portable ultrasound machine on a white plastic cart. She explained to Sherlock that a CT scan or MRI would be preferable but under the circumstances the ultrasound would have to suffice unless Sherlock wanted to be transported to a hospital. Sherlock loudly protested that idea, as Mycroft knew he would. Sherlock dozed as she applied gel to the transducer and passed it repeatedly over his abdomen, then his neck and finally his face. The last pass woke him due to the pressure of the transducer against his extensive bruises. Mycroft brought in a chair from the kitchen to sit by the bed and watch intently. When she was done, Dr. Gupta wiped the gel off Sherlock’s skin with a damp towel and tucked the duvet around him.

“I don’t see any organ damage. Looks like you escaped any spinal cord injury, too, Sherlock. Your disks look good. I am concerned about your thyroid gland and your larynx. It could be bruising due to strangulation but it could also be cartridge fractures of the larynx or a rupture in the thyroid. I want to keep an eye on it and do another ultrasound in a few hours. If there’s no change, you should be in the clear to recover here at home.” Dr. Gupta glanced up at Mycroft. He nodded. She continued, “Your nose is broken. Not just the cartridge, you also have a fracture of the nasal bone. I set it while you were under, but you may need surgery eventually to fully restore your nasal airway but it’s not urgent. You also have a hairline fracture of your right orbital. It should heal fine without intervention.”

The patient remained silent while Dr. Gupta rattled off his injuries. When it appeared Dr. Gupta was finished, he asked, “My back?”

The pretty young doctor nodded. “You have lacerations and contusions. I had to stitch the worst of them. You have 29 stitches across three major lacerations. The more minor lacerations and the contusions are just bandaged.”

“And my chest?” Sherlock winced; every breath caused pain to bloom from the center of his chest.

“Bruised sternum. Three fractured ribs, apparently hairline fractures but even the smallest fracture to a rib can cause severe pain. You also have nine stitches in your left ear. The skin was too torn to dermabond. The cut on your lip will heal. I don’t think a stitch is needed, but it will leave a scar. I closed the cut on your eyebrow with dermabond. It will scar but less than a stitch would have. You also have a concussion. It seems to be moderate. We’ll be able to tell more with time.” Dr. Gupta squeezed Sherlock’s arm and rose. She left the room quietly and the door.

Sherlock ran his tongue along the inside and outside of both his upper and lower teeth. _All accounted for, less the one I had pulled._

Mycroft moved to sit on the side of the bed. He smoothed the blood-matted hair back from Sherlock’s forehead. “Can I get you anything?” The concern, the tenderness in his brother’s voice nearly caused Sherlock to come undone. He was so tired, so sore – and drugged with narcotic painkillers – and Sherlock was having trouble not coming apart. As it was a tear escaped one battered eye and coursed down his temple into his filthy hair. Mycroft wiped its trail away with his fingertips.

“Can you help me turn to my side?” Sherlock was in too much pain from the broken ribs and bruised sternum to be able to roll over; he thought that lying on his side might make breathing a little easier. His brother carefully maneuvered Sherlock’s torso and hips until he was facing the room. Sherlock nodded. “That’s better. Thank you.” He closed his eyes and sank back into the blessed blackness. He didn’t feel his brother smooth his crusted hair away from his hairline and plant a soft, dry kiss on his forehead.

 

***X***X***

 

Sherlock passed two more days drifting in and out of consciousness. He was never alone when he awoke no matter if it was day or night. Mycroft, Dr. Gupta and Mrs. Hudson rotated at his bedside and when he awoke on the morning of the third day, Molly was sitting in a chair beside his bed holding his hand.

She jumped when Sherlock croaked her name. She grinned down at him with a tender expression in her eyes. “Sherlock, I didn’t know you were awake. Um, do you need help. You know...” She nodded toward the ensuite.

Sherlock considered. He did need to use the toilet but didn’t want to embarrass Molly. Then he contemplated that she was a doctor; while she currently worked with the dead, she had gone to medical school and attended live patients, so she’d seen it all. He nodded and pushed himself to sitting using his elbow, groaning. 

He felt like hell, even worse than the prior times he’d crawled out of bed. Molly brought the IV stand around and steadied him with an arm around his waist. She was tiny but strong from years of wrangling inert bodies. Together they managed to make it to the loo and back.

Molly held Sherlock’s hand again and chatted brightly. She told him Dr. Gupta had gone home to shower and change and that Mycroft had left to attend to a few hours of business. When Sherlock said he was hungry, Molly called Mrs. Hudson, who brought up soup and rolls. Molly helped Sherlock sit and propped additional pillows against the headboard.

While he slowly ate, Sherlock realized that no one had mentioned John. He had no idea where John was or what he was doing. The thought made his head swim a little but the blessed haze of IV painkiller and fuzziness of concussion took the edge off. He gestured to Molly to take the tray away; when she did, he turned painfully to his side, miserable and hurting, and closed his eyes to let the blackness pull him under again.


	17. After the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally finds out John's fate and where he's been while Sherlock convalesced. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Detailed description of physical symptoms in the aftermath of physical assault, depression.

On the evening of the fourth day Sherlock surfaced from his drug-induced sleep to find Mycroft seated beside his bed with his head propped on his hand, dozing. Sherlock gingerly tried to roll to his side; the rustle of the covers brought his brother around. Mycroft dropped his hand from his face and leaned forward. “You look like hell,” Sherlock rasped – and Mycroft did. Dark circles ringed his eyes and deep lines etched his face; he’d obviously slept little over the time that Sherlock had been mostly out cold.

Sherlock tried to sit up against the headboard. He winced in pain and gave up, sinking flat against the pillows again. He noted that his hair was finally clean and his face and neck finally felt free of crusted blood. Someone had given him a sponge bath while he was out cold. He wondered who.

Mycroft shifted from the chair to the side of the bed. He reached out and helped Sherlock sit, then shift his legs over the side of the bed. “Bathroom first, then we thought you might try to make it to the sofa today. You are at risk for pneumonia from spending so much time prone. Do you think you’re ready to try for the sofa?”

Sherlock nodded. Along with his injuries, his lower back ached from lying in bed for so many days. Other than trips to the loo each time he awoke Sherlock had been bedridden and wasn’t even sure what day it was. He leaned heavily on Mycroft and shuffled to the ensuite; when he was done he hobbled to the living room with Mycroft’s strong arm around his waist. Mycroft rolled the IV stand with his other hand. 

The worn sofa had never looked so good to Sherlock and he sunk into it gratefully. He was as winded as if he’d run five miles, was weak as a kitten, his head pounded from concussion and he felt dizzy.

Mycroft shoved the coffee table aside and pulled Sherlock’s leather and chrome armchair near where his brother’s head lay on the sofa. Mycroft reached over Sherlock, lifted the throw from the sofa back and settled it over his inert form. Sherlock was shivering, clearly overtaxed by the morning’s exertions. Satisfied that his younger brother was well settled, Mycroft headed to the kitchen and returned shortly with two steaming mugs and a bowl.

“I made oatmeal with milk and honey, and tea. Can you eat a little?”

Sherlock opened his eyes at Mycroft’s soft words. When they were children their mother had made oatmeal, thinned with milk and sweetened with honey, when they were sick. It was a simple, easy-to-eat comfort food; the thought of it made Sherlock’s eyes mist. He tried to get an elbow under himself and finally managed to rise to a sitting position with much struggling and grunting. Mycroft stood by, watching. 

“You could give me a hand,” Sherlock rasped peevishly.

“It’s best you start working your muscles a little now. The injuries to your back are healing nicely and it’s unlikely you’ll tear the stitches with normal exertion.” Mycroft sounded kind even though his words were formal.

“Have you ever broken a rib? Moving hurts like hell. Even the slightest movement. Breathing is agony.”

“No, brother, I haven’t and I am sorry your ribs are causing you so much discomfort.” Mycroft did sound sorry.

When Sherlock had finished his tea and eaten as much of the oatmeal as he could stomach, Mycroft cleared the dishes. He returned to the living room and moved the chair to directly face Sherlock where he leaned heavily on the arm of the sofa. “Dr. Gupta reduced your pain medication this morning. You should be able to think more easily now but you need to let me know if the pain is too much.”

Curls bobbed as Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not too much. I’d rather be able to stay awake for more than five minutes. But it’s hard to think with this damned concussion.”

Mycroft nodded gravely. “Are you ready to talk about Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock’s head snapped up at his older brother’s words. He pressed his lips together, biting the inside of his lower lip to supress a moan of pain. Moving his head so quickly made the concussive headache worse. He finally nodded slowly.

“Doctor Watson is charged with felony assault, attempted murder, domestic violence, disturbing the peace and assault with a deadly weapon. He is in custody.”

Sherlock’s jaw fell. He dropped his gaze to the floor in front of the sofa. “Christ, Mycroft. Did you really have to? Are you trying to ruin his life?”

“I believe Doctor Watson did quite a fine job of ruining his own life without my assistance. And yes, the charges against him each hold merit. Sherlock, if we had been even _two minutes_ later, you would be dead now, not lying on that sofa arguing with me. Do you understand? He _strangled_ you. That is an automatic attempted murder charge. You were in very grave danger, Sherlock. The charges were not decided upon lightly.”

“Mycroft, there’s something you don’t know. You need to know before you press charges.” Sherlock glanced at his brother then dropped his gaze to the floor again. “This … it was all my fault. I bought cocaine. I didn’t use, I swear. But John found it. He just … he snapped when he found it. If I hadn’t bought it, none this would ever have happened.” Sherlock’s defenses were ragged from nearly a week of pain and narcotics and the absence of the man he loved from his life. A tear splashed on his folded hands, then another, until he was crying silently.

Mycroft reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s forearm. He left his hand in place, grasping his brother firmly. “I know about the cocaine. I found it on the floor and disposed of it. I know you didn’t use. Dr. Gupta ran a full blood panel the first day.” Mycroft’s voice gained strength. He continued with conviction, “Sherlock, _you did not cause this._ No matter what you did, you did not deserve to be savagely beaten and nearly killed. _Nothing_ you did would warrant that assault”

“But John wouldn’t have done that if I hadn’t bought drugs!” Sherlock sobbed, feeling sick with guilt. He finally looked up at his brother.

“If not for the drugs, then it would likely have happened another day and for another reason. Doctor Watson has become dangerously unstable.” Mycroft held Sherlock’s gaze for a long moment; his expression was stern but kind.

Something occurred to Sherlock for the first time since he was assaulted. “How did you know? How did you arrive just in the nick of time?”

“I put a safety plan in place with Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Turner and Mrs. Turner’s tenants next door several months ago. They were to call me if they heard anything of concern coming from your flat. I had calls from all three at nearly the same time. I could hear you screaming in the background and Doctor Watson shouting. Sherlock, I heard it all _through walls, over a mobile connection._ ” Mycroft paused, staring intently into his brother’s eyes.

“I want you to understand the condition I found you in. Doctor Watson was straddling your waist. Both of your arms were pinned under his legs, rendering you unable to defend yourself. His hands were around your neck, crushing your larynx. Your face, neck and chest were covered in blood; your hair was dripping with it. Doctor Watson’s hands were bloodied nearly to his elbows. His knuckles were torn open. He hit you hard enough to rip the skin from his own knuckles.” Mycroft’s voice shook with emotion: he paused again to get himself under control. Sherlock broke the gaze and hung his head, staring at Mycroft’s stocking feet while tears continued to course silently down his cheeks.

“Your back hit the corner of the coffee table on your way down. You also landed on several spiral-bound notebooks. The metal coils tore gashes in your skin. The worst wound was from the corner of the table. It sliced a very deep laceration across your shoulder blade that required 20 stitches. You’re lucky your scapula wasn’t shattered. The broken ribs and bruised sternum came from the blow from Doctor Watson’s elbow. In addition to your face and hair being bloodied, you were lying in a pool of your own blood from the injuries to your back. The skin was effectively shredded.”

Sherlock shifted to lie down. He felt crushed with the weight of Mycroft’s words and wished the fuzzy oblivion of the painkiller was still strong enough to pull him under.

“So you see, Sherlock, every charge is warranted. Doctor Watson would be charged with murder if it were not for your landlady and neighbors comprehending the danger you were in and notifying me immediately. All of my calls are recorded. I will play the calls for you. I also took pictures of both you and Doctor Watson while the medical team worked on you. I think you need to see them. The recordings and the pictures are … disturbing.”

Sherlock shook his head as much as possible while lying down. “No, not now. I don’t … I can’t.”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. He squeezed Sherlock’s arm again. “I am sorry, Sherlock, but you need to understand the gravity of the situation. Do you grasp how severely Doctor Watson assaulted you?”

Sherlock sighed, eyes closed. He swallowed and paused for a few seconds before nodding slowly. “Yes, I understand.”

“Good, I need you to understand before I explain the plea bargain I’m willing to offer him. I am willing to offer that all charges be dropped and all record of the incident be wiped clean in exchange for his leaving London forever. He is never to contact you, under any circumstances, directly or through anyone else. He will sign over all rights to his blog to you. He will leave and never be heard from again.”

Tears streamed down Sherlock’s face at Mycroft’s words; every word was like a physical blow. “No, Mycroft. No, that’s not what I want.”

“Then pray, tell me, what do you want?”

Sherlock turned to his side facing his brother and curled his knees to his chest under the warm throw. “I want it all to go away. I want it to be like it used to be.” His voice was small, and trembled; his expression was lost and vulnerable. “Please, Mycroft, just make it stop.”

Mycroft moved from the chair to the sofa. He lifted Sherlock’s shoulders and slid in under his head, taking Sherlock into his arms and holding him tightly against his chest. He stroked his younger brother’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. “I wish I could, brother. I wish I could make it like it used to be for you.” 

Mycroft rocked gently, holding Sherlock as silent tears wet the front of his shirt. After a few minutes he spoke again. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, but this is the best offer I can make to Doctor Watson. He’ll be free with no record of charges. It is a much more generous offer than he deserves. Personally I would charge him with everything and more and lock him away for the rest of his life. Abusers don’t change. It’s a menace to society for him to be at large. It’s only deference for your feelings that lead me to offer the plea bargain.”

“But he won’t be able to find a job without a recommendation from the clinic. What will he do?”

Mycroft paused to consider, then offered, “He can choose a location, any town or city other than London. I will arrange a job for him. I will even arrange a flat and provide movers.”

Sherlock nodded against his brother’s chest. “Alright then. That will have to be … acceptable. Will you tell me where he goes?” Sherlock’s voice was small, broken.

“I think it’s best you not know.”

“I can find out on my own.”

“I know you can, Sherlock. Please just don’t ask me to tell you anything about Doctor Watson. He will remain under surveillance by my agency. If he ever tries to contact you, no matter the circumstances, the agreement will immediately be void and he will face full charges.”

Mycroft paused for so long that Sherlock tilted his face up to see what was the matter. Mycroft gazed down at his brother intently and continued. “That includes you contacting him, Sherlock. If you contact him in any way then the plea bargain will be void and he will face charges and most likely spend the rest of his life in prison.”

Sherlock turned away from his brother slowly, careful of his ribs and stitches. He settled his head on Mycroft’s lap. He wanted to take deep breaths to calm himself but his broken ribs allowed him only shallow gasps of air. The room spun around him as he gave in to the blackness pulling him under once again. His last thought was _John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MissDavis and SincerelyChaos for sticking with me to beta this story. Your suggestions make it so much better.


	18. Dawning after the dark night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock struggles to recover from being assaulted and his friends struggle with guilt at not recognizing the signs that he was being abused. Sherlock also struggles with getting over John. 
> 
> Friends and family often think it's a magical fix to get away from an abuser. They expect a victim to be instantly happy to be free. What they don't understand is the victim needs time to mourn the relationship and it's normal for the victim to miss their abuser. (I didn't use the term Stockholm Syndrome in this chapter, but it's very common in victims of abuse and Sherlock is showing signs.)
> 
> Trigger warnings: After effects of assault, codependency, Stockholm Syndrome.

The doorbell chimed. Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson open the door and greet someone warmly, then light footsteps on the stairs. _Dr. Gupta._ He knew Molly’s tread; this wasn’t it, so obviously it was the young doctor who had come to check him over.

Dr. Gupta changed the bandages on Sherlock’s back and passed the ultrasound wand over his throat. She assured him that his thyroid and larynx were healing. She inquired about his pain level; he replied it was 7 out of 10 so Dr. Gupta recommended upping the pain medication slightly. There was no reason for Sherlock to be uncomfortable while his injuries healed. She also promised to remove all of his stitches the next day.

The hypodermic of painkiller injected into his IV line hit almost instantly. Sherlock heard Dr. Gupta and Mycroft talking but the words stretched out into unintelligible sounds as the comforting blanket of unconsciousness folded over him.

 

***X***X***

 

Days passed when Sherlock experienced brief islands of consciousness in a black sea of nothingness. He was in too much pain from the concussion to even feel bored. His family and friends were a blur of faces that were glimpsed briefly before they were shut out by the blackness. They were supporting arms to help him to the loo, hands to help him sit up, voices urging him to eat: Mycroft, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Gupta, his mother and father. He even came around to find Lestrade sitting by his bedside reading a newspaper. Sherlock feigned sleep, not wanting to face talking to the Detective Inspector. 

...every face except the one Sherlock wanted to see the most, the one he missed the most - the one that was the reason for his prolonged convalescence.

Dr. Gupta asked about his pain level daily. Sherlock wasn’t lying when he reported to her that his pain continued to be in the 8 to 10 range. Mostly it was from the broken ribs but he wondered if the real source of pain might not be a truly broken heart. 

He missed John terribly but felt he couldn’t share that with any of his caretakers. They all studiously avoided mentioning John’s name. It was worse than if John had died. Sherlock felt like his family and closest friends were trying to erase the past decade from his life and it made him feel very lonely. It was easier to report to the young doctor that his physical pain was close to overwhelming than to admit to her that he needed something to dull the emotional anguish.

 

***X***X***

 

It was Molly who finally broke the silence and allowed Sherlock to express his pain. She took a night shift, sitting by her friend in the darkness. Sherlock woke to the cold glow of a laptop illuminating Molly’s face. She quickly set it aside and helped him to sit up against the headboard. A sandwich and glass of milk were already waiting on the bedside table. Molly went back to whatever it was she was doing online while Sherlock ate as much as he could manage. He was becoming dangerously thin, even thinner than he’d been before his injuries. Food tasted like cardboard in his mouth and after only a few mouthfuls it became intolerable to swallow, no matter what Mrs. Hudson had prepared to try to tempt him.

Once Molly sat the nearly-untouched food and half empty glass on the bedside table, she perched on the edge of the bed and looked Sherlock square in the face. “Sherlock, you need to know, it’s okay to let it out with me. I’ve been where you are. Well, not so badly beaten, but I do know what it feels like to give up the person you love because they did that.”

Sherlock started back at Molly. Molly held the gaze as she continued. “It hurts. Everyone thinks you should be happy to be free of him, but you’re not. I know. I was a mess for months. The person you love is gone. You love the person they used to be. You can’t believe the man you love would do this to you. He did, but it’s still okay to miss him. It’s all okay.” 

All the tension left Sherlock’s frame at once. He slumped forward; Molly quickly caught him. Sherlock mumbled into Molly’s shoulder. “I miss John, Molly. He took care of me while I was recovered from being shot. He took care of me when I was sick. I want him here, now, when I feel so horrible. To take care of me...” Sherlock’s words trailed off as he started to cry.

Molly stroked Sherlock’s hair and murmured comforting words. She did know how hard it is to reconcile the idea of the person you loved with the person who gave you a savage beating. She had been where Sherlock was. She wanted to help her friend through the pain and out the other side. “Sherlock, it’s okay to feel what you feel. Other people might not understand, but that’s okay. You feel it, and feelings aren’t right or wrong. You can always talk to me.”

“I know, Molly. Thank you.” Sherlock was utterly spent. He slipped from Molly’s embrace to lie back on the pillows and let the darkness pull him under once again.

 

***X***X***

 

The stitches came out, the bruises and scabs began to heal. The bruised sternum and broken ribs still caused sharp pain but at least the swelling in his face had started to go down. His broken nose was healing enough that Sherlock could once again breathe through his nose. He had a classic ‘broken nose bump’ where the cartridge met the bone – Dr. Gupta said surgery would take care of that – but Sherlock didn’t really care as long as he could breathe well. The last thing he wanted was a surgery that would cause more swelling and more pain.

Dr. Gupta removed the IV and switched Sherlock to oral pain meds. The concussion was healing with only few headaches left in its wake. Sherlock could think again and felt like he was beginning to return to his normal self.

Except that his ‘self’ wasn’t the self he was used to. His old self would have been whining about boredom and texting Lestrade for a case. His new self just wanted to stay in and only have his closest friends around. Mycroft had brought in movers to remove all of John’s belongings during Sherlock’s long periods of unconsciousness. The living room hardly showed any change, just books and DVDs missing from the bookshelves and files from the desk. Only a person as observant as Sherlock would even notice. 

Sherlock hadn’t stirred when the movers had stripped their bedroom of any trace of John; he’d been out cold from the painkillers. The empty drawers and empty space in the wardrobe were like a knife in his heart every time Sherlock dressed. The empty coat hook hit him like a punch in the gut every time Sherlock went near the door. Sherlock knew that if he were to climb the stairs to John’s old room he would find it nearly empty. John had kept the bulk of his possessions there even after he’d moved downstairs to sleep – so Sherlock didn’t make the climb.

He spent his days curled on the sofa. When he was alone he alternated between periods of blankness and periods of silent tears. He lost even more weight since he only remembered to eat when someone prompted him.

***X***X***

Sherlock swam up from the darkness to the pain of a crick in his neck. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa and his neck had bent into an unnatural angle. He groaned with his eyes still tightly closed and wished that he’d thought ahead to set the bottle of painkillers on the coffee table when he laid down. 

“Need a pain pill?” 

Sherlock recognized that voice - Greg Lestrade. He groaned again and cracked one eye open. Greg was sitting in the red easy chair - _John’s chair_ \- reading a newspaper. “What are you doing here? Your turn to babysit?”

“Sherlock, I’ve been here every day since … since … you know. You could show a little appreciation.”

“Every day?” Sherlock tried not to show his shock. He thought that waking to find Lestrade at his bedside was a one-time event. He hadn’t realized that Greg had been sitting with him every day while he was out cold. He felt a little dizzy at the thought that he hadn’t deduced the fact. _What else have I missed?_ “I am grateful, Greg. Thank you.”

Greg nodded his acceptance of Sherlock’s thanks as he rose, folded the newspaper and sat it on the small table beside the chair. _John’s table._ He went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a glass of water and a pill bottle. He sat both on the coffee table in front of Sherlock and went back into the kitchen. “You hungry?” Greg called through the open doorway.

“No, no thank you.” 

Greg came back into the living room with a bottle of beer in his hand. He dropped into the red armchair. “You’re looking positively malnourished, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson made some chicken and noodles especially for you. Least you could do is try some.”

Sherlock struggled to sit up. He rolled to his knees and dropped to the floor, then wedged an elbow on the sofa seat and hauled himself up, finally twisting to drop onto the sofa cushion. These contortions were necessary due to the continued pain from the broken ribs. He was sweating by the time he was finally seated and would have been breathing hard if deep breaths wouldn’t have caused even more pain. He reached for the pill bottle, popped the cap and shook two white tablets into his palm. He threw them to the back of his throat and washed them down with a gulp from the glass. “On second thought, perhaps some chicken would go nicely with oxycodone.”

The beer bottle klunked as Greg sat it heavily on the side table. He went back to the kitchen and came back with a bowl and spoon and handed it to Sherlock then retrieved his beer and took a seat at the other end of the sofa.

Sherlock made a valiant effort to eat the dish - he knew from past experience it was delicious. It tasted like sawdust in his mouth and he struggled against the urge to spit it back into the bowl. He swallowed a few bites with difficulty before sighing and sitting the bowl on the coffee table. Greg leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped and head hanging. He looked at the floor in front of his feet as he began to speak. “Listen, Sherlock, I want to apologize. I should have known. You know, I should have picked up on … what was going on. Could have saved you a lot of pain. I’m sorry.” 

Sherlock sat back gingerly, careful to avoid jostling his broken ribs. “There’s no way you…”

Greg spoke over Sherlock, cutting off his words. “I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake. We get training in domestic violence, what to look out for, the signs, all that. And here it was, right under my nose, my own friend being beaten by his partner and I didn’t know. I feel just awful, Sherlock. I let you down.”

Sherlock remained quiet. Greg raised his head to lock eyes with him. When Sherlock didn’t reply. Greg continued. “I wish there was something I could have done. I hate that you thought you were alone in all this.”

Sherlock’s heart pounded in his ears. He hadn’t been alone. He’d had John, his partner and his lover. And if John got short sometimes, a little brittle around the edges, well … at other times he was tender and loving and the man Sherlock loved. How could he explain that to Greg? How would Greg ever understand that he hadn’t felt unsafe with John, he hadn’t considered himself a ‘victim.” It would take too much energy to even try. The pain pill was starting to call him with the blessed relief of dreamless sleep, the escape from his existence of pain, pain and more pain - both physical and emotional. 

“Greg, I appreciate your sentiment, but there wasn’t anything you could have done. You don’t have to sit vigil at my bedside from some misplaced sense of guilt.”

Greg shook his head. “No, that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because you’re my friend and you need help. You were willing to jump off a building for me, the least I can do is sit with you now.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. Yes, he’d jumped off St. Bart’s Hospital ostensibly to keep snipers from shooting Greg, Mrs. Hudson and John. Only he and John knew that his real motivation had been to keep John safe. Now it was his secret alone. “I’m alright, Greg. If you have something else to do, by all means, be off.”

“No, I don’t actually. I’d rather be here to make sure you’re okay.”

The sleepiness of the narcotic was hitting hard. Sherlock blinked slowly. The effort of keeping his eyes open seemed monumental. “Then would you help me up? I think I’d like to lie down in bed for a bit.”

Greg was happy to have something concrete to do to help his friend. He threaded an arm under Sherlock’s and helped him stand. He kept his arm in place as they walked down the hall; he situated Sherlock on the edge of the bed and helped him out of his dressing gown, then turned down the duvet and helped him lie down. When Sherlock was laid on his side, as comfortably as possible in his current condition, Greg squeezed his shoulder and stood. “Thank you, Greg,” Sherlock murmured as he drifted off. 

Greg stood looking down at Sherlock’s face, relaxed in drugged sleep. After a few long minutes he scrubbed his hand down over his face and sighed, pained to see his friend so broken and alone, and even more pained that he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it happening.


	19. Step Forward Step Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery from intimate partner abuse is like a cha-cha - step forward/step back. Sherlock reemerges into the outside world with the encouragement of friends but encounters some painful reminders. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: detailed discussion of domestic abuse

Mycroft heard an undertone in the violin music floating down the stairs that could almost be described as melancholy as he climbed the stairs at 221B. Sherlock was standing at the window playing his violin for the first time since the assault. Sherlock’s support team had lately begun to back off to give him some personal space, reducing their round-the-clock vigil to checking in on him several times a day. 

Sherlock turned around and sat the violin on the desk as Mycroft entered the living room. “It’s good to hear you playing again,” Mycroft said as he took a seat in Sherlock’s chair.

“I reduced the pain medication today. I’m feeling better.”

Mycroft gave his brother an assessing one-over. He did look better today; there was even a hint of color in his face. The bruises had faded and the scars had healed and were now shiny pink. Sherlock had obviously showered and tamed his hair that morning. Other than his skeletal appearance, he looked very much himself. Mycroft gave him a small smile - it was good to see his brother resuming his normal activities. “Dr. Gupta will be pleased to hear it.”

He reached down to the briefcase he’d sat at his feet. “I brought along some files. Some cases from the Met, some of mine. You can make yourself useful. Nothing that requires you to visit in person, unless you care to.”

Sherlock took the proffered files, sat on the sofa and let his head fall back with eyes closed. He propped his bare feet on the coffee table and set the files aside. “I read the news today. I suppose I owe you thanks, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shook his head slightly. “No thanks needed, brother. I wanted to ensure that your reputation - and thus your income - remains intact.” The news to which Sherlock referred was a small article in several newspapers and online news sites that reported Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had separated by mutual agreement. Mr. Holmes would continue their consulting detective business while Dr. Watson pursued a medical career elsewhere. Obviously Mycroft’s staff had composed and placed the article.

“So you kept the true story out of the papers.” Sherlock’s flat affect hid his internal turmoil.

“Yes, it was best for you and for Doctor Watson, although his welfare was not my concern. It was an easy matter to suppress your story and substitute the story you read today.”

“How very ethical of you.” 

Sherlock’s goading was a sign that he was regaining his health. Mycroft never thought he’d be happy to be baited by his irritating brother but found himself glad to be the brunt of Sherlock’s sarcasm now. He smiled broadly. “It sounds like you’re ready to get back to work, Sherlock. Take a look at these files. It’s time you get back out in the world.”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft smiled even wider and relaxed a bit into the chair. “Let Lestrade know when you’re ready to work full tilt again. He’ll be pleased.” He paused and gave Sherlock a long look before continuing softly, “And so will I.”

 

***X***X***

It was Molly who was his lifeline. Molly, who had been through the same ‘love withdrawal,’ who knew what it felt like to give up the love of his life. Molly listened as Sherlock talked about good times with John, stories that no one else wanted to hear. She listened to details of the bad times that Sherlock couldn’t share with another soul. Even when Sherlock knew that he was incoherent, Molly listened and helped him sort things out.

She encouraged him to look up information about male victims of domestic violence. Sherlock scoffed at the idea but in the dark hours of night, when he couldn't sleep as his mind played and replayed fragments from what used to be his life back when he still had one, before all...this, he did search online and found a wealth of information. Through reading other men’s stories he realized he wasn’t alone, that there were so many other men who had also been assaulted by their spouses or partners. Most of the men who shared stories online were both articulate and of at least average intelligence. There was a sort of comfort in knowing that victims of abuse could be of any educational level - including his own. 

 

***X***X***

Mycroft cajoled Sherlock into going to his first post-injury crime scene with Lestrade, hoping an interesting murder case would help drag Sherlock out of his lethargy and re-engage his interest in the work.

Sherlock arrived on the crime scene in a familiar swirl of coat. It felt good to spring from the cab and stride in like a puma about to pounce, to feel the familiar surge of adrenaline through his veins. Even before he crouched over the body of a young man splayed facedown on the carpet of a posh flat in Mayfair, Sherlock had deduced part of what had happened in the room just from looking at the blood spatters on the living room wall.Sherlock spewed his deductions at breakneck speed while Lestrade scribbled notes and struggled to keep up. “Blunt force trauma to the back of the head - body was moved after the blow - murderer went through his pockets - rifled through the house to make it look like a robbery - motive wasn’t robbery but was to find a small item that the victim would have kept on his person. Wallet, mobile phone, jewelry, some sort of document that could be folded and kept in a pocket.”

Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade as he pulled on opaque nitrile gloves and kneeled beside the body. “I see you’ve missed my help.” His tone was droll but his eyes betrayed his humorous intent.

Greg gave him a half-smile in reply. “Good to have you back.” Greg’s simple sentence had many layers of meaning: good to have Sherlock back at the crime scene, good to see Sherlock getting back to his old self, good to have Sherlock poking fun at him again.

Sherlock went through the victim’s pockets methodically. His wallet and phone appeared to be undisturbed. A signet ring on his left pinky also appeared to be undisturbed. The lining of his left front trouser pocket showed a minute tear and a frayed thread. “He carried something in his trouser pocket, something the murderer wanted. The murderer pulled it forcefully from the pocket after hitting the victim from behind - find a heavy object, check for tools and sports equipment. Perhaps the murderer took it with him or dropped it along the way. Whatever was in this pocket was jerked out in a hurry - see the tear here? Based on that, I believe my earlier supposition about a document is true. A heavy envelope, folded and stuffed into the pocket. Heavy enough paper to tear the lining. The murderer was after the information in the document, either to suppress it or to make it public. The victim was either blackmailing the murderer or was the victim of the murderer’s blackmail.” 

Sherlock glanced up, expecting to see a round face displaying admiration at his rapid-fire stream of information. His heart contracted when he remembered he’d come to the crime scene alone. He sat back on his heels and realized he’d never hear “Fantastic - amazing - that was incredible” again. He’d never hear the sound of smaller footfalls behind him when chasing a criminal through an alleyway. He’d never jump into a cab afterwards, high on adrenaline, to talk over the case details and laugh over the ineptitude of the Met’s forensic team.

It hurt. Really _hurt_. He’d no longer have someone _John_ to conduct his light, to make him better at what he did best. Who would buoy him to be better? Who would be the catalyst for his sudden realizations? Sherlock swallowed. He suddenly needed to get out of there, _fast_. He needed to keep his reputation intact. Without the work, who would he be now? 

Greg glanced up from his notebook with his pencil poised to take more notes. Sherlock noticed Greg’s concerned look. He sprung up and headed for the front door. “Sherlock, just a minute.”

“Even your team can take it from here. I’ve got other matters…” Sherlock let his voice trail off as he slammed the door. He nearly sprinted to the corner and hailed a cab. In the relative privacy of its back seat he was at last able to let his guard down, to give way to the panic that had come with the realization that he truly was in this alone now.

***X***X***

 

Sherlock was lying on the sofa in his dressing gown and pyjamas when he heard the doorbell. If anyone had been there to ask, he would have said he was thinking. But he wasn’t really thinking - he was drifting, his mind flitting from one thought to another without really engaging in any of them.

The chime of the doorbell interrupted his drifting again and again. Mrs. Hudson must be out. Sherlock ignored the chime twice more but on the third ring he struggled to his feet - the broken ribs still hurt - and thundered down the stairs barefoot. He wrenched open the door to find Sergeant Sally Donovan holding a white plastic take-out bag in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other, in addition to an irritated look on her face.

“Hullo, freak. Noticed yesterday that you were getting mighty thin so I thought I’d bring you some fish and chips.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows flew toward his hairline. “Sally?” he blurted. He stood blocking the entrance with one hand on the doorframe and the other on the edge of the heavy door. Sally hadn’t even spoken to him at the crime scene the day before.

Sally shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve been through this myself, you know. I dated a guy a few years back that got off on beating a copper. A real control freak. Having control of a police officer was a high for him. Took me two years to get free of him. So, dinner.” She held up the bags.

“How do you know?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He didn’t like the idea of the Yarders knowing about how his relationship with John had ended. 

“Recognized the signs, put two and two together. I’m not really the idiot you say I am. Once you’ve been through it you start to see things other people don’t notice. I knew a while ago. I knew what kind of man he was. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything about it to anyone else.” 

Sherlock stepped back and held the door open so she could enter. He followed her up the stairs and dropped onto the sofa. “That’s why you carry on with Anderson. He’s safe. He’s married and not going to leave his wife, but you don’t care. You know he won’t raise a hand to you and he certainly doesn’t control you.”

Sally sat at the other end of the sofa. She shoved papers aside on the coffee table then took two paper-wrapped portions out of the bag and sat them on the table and pulled a six-pack of bottled beer from the other bag, twisted the caps off two and handed one to Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated - he’d taken a pain pill that morning, but it was now after dark and he was sure the narcotic had worked its way through his system by the twinges his ribs were sending him. He decided what the hell - wouldn’t be the first time he’d mixed opioids and alcohol - and he appreciated the company, even if it was Sergeant Donovan, not exactly his favorite person at Scotland Yard.

“Right again. Philip’s actually a good guy. If you can overlook the adultery. But I wouldn’t marry him even if he left his wife. You hit it right on the head. He’s safe. He serves his purpose for me.”

Sherlock took a pull from the bottle. He lowered it and narrowed his eyes at Sally. “Oh god, don’t tell me what purpose. I really don’t want to know.”

Sally laughed and clinked her bottle against Sherlock’s in salute. “Deal, I won’t. But just know, he’s quite good with his purpose. Keeps me happy.”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. He was surprised to find that he was actually enjoying Sally’s company. He unwrapped the fish and chips and took a bite of satisfyingly greasy battered whitefish. “So, you had a bad … experience?” 

Sally nodded since her mouth was full. She swallowed and took a drink before starting her story. “It was about five years ago, before I made Detective Sergeant. I was a beat cop at the time, still in uniform. I met him at a pub. A bunch of us Yarders met up for an after work. The pub was crowded, friendly. You know, the type of neighborhood place where people just talk to each other. He started talking, asking me about myself. He was charming, a perfect gentleman. I’d have taken him home but he just gave me his number and told me to call him.” She paused to take another drink from the nearly-empty bottle in her hand. “Christ, he knew how to play it. He used every trick in the book to hook me from that first night. Appeared to be so kind, so loving, so interested in everything I liked. The perfect man for me, like a match made in heaven.” Sally laughed bitterly.

“That lasted for about six months. Then little things started happening. You know, he got irritated at little things but then was so loving the next minute. He slowly started to pick every place we went, everything we did. He found fault with my friends and family. Convinced me that they didn’t care for me. That my own mum and dad didn’t really love me! Oh, I was so brainwashed. He made me think that he was the only person in the world who loved me and understood me.” Another bitter laugh as Sally reached for a fresh bottle and twisted the cap. She nodded toward Sherlock’s bottle but he shook his head and held it up to show her it was still half full.

“The next two years slowly became a living hell. He wasn’t so much into the physical stuff. Once in a while he’d shove me, or hold my arms to stop me from leaving the room when we argued, or stand in front of the door if I wanted to leave. And here’s the sad thing, Sherlock. I’m a cop and I still didn’t recognize what he did as abusive. In my mind, if he didn’t hit me, he didn’t abuse me. Christ in heaven, I’ve had domestic violence training as part of my job but I still didn’t see what was happening!” Sally’s eyes sparkled as she held Sherlock’s gaze. _Tears. Sally Donovan brought dinner to me and is sharing her story. Remarkable._

Sherlock spoke at last. “People think abusers are crazy-looking monsters who get into arguments with the postman and shake their fist at children if they step onto their lawn. But they’re not. They look like like every one of your dreams come true. The perfect man for you. They hide in plain sight.”

Sally’s curls bobbed as she nodded eagerly. “Yeah! They hook you like a fish with their attention and their sweet talk, then they slip in a few jabs slowly, here and there. No pattern, just a sly remark that’s easy to dismiss because they’re so nice the rest of the time. I remember the very first jab. We went out to dinner. A nice restaurant. I wore a new dress. It was tight and cut low in the neckline. I thought I looked like a model with my new dress, high heels and my makeup. We were walking into the restaurant and right before he greeted the maitre de, he turned to me and said ‘If you had any self respect you wouldn’t wear that outfit in public.’ Then he turned to the maitre de and acted so charming, so kind. The rest of the evening he was the the perfect date. I was stunned, Sherlock! I sat there with red cheeks, convinced everyone in the restaurant thought I was a whore he’d picked up on the street corner after what he said.”

Sherlock took a long pull at his bottle to finish it off. “Yes. Little remarks here and there.”

“Then it gets worse, and worse, until slowly you’re living with the devil himself.” Sally cracked the cap on another bottle and handed it to Sherlock then opened another for herself. “And the worst part was that he’d driven off all my friends. And I’d alienated my family after he convinced me with terrible lies about them. In the end, when he did start roughing me up pretty regularly, I had no one to turn to for help. God, I was so stupid!”

Sherlock laid his large hand on her delicate wrist. “Not stupid, Sally. I’ve always thought you were an intelligent woman. You were taken in by the charm early on. It happens to even the most intelligent people.”

Sally looked down at Sherlock’s hand. “You know, forgiving myself is the hardest thing. I should have known. I’m a cop, for gods’ sake! You’d think a cop would know.” 

Sherlock squeezed her wrist gently. “And I’m the man who notices everything, who sees what other people miss. If I didn’t know what was happening, then no one would.” He gave a wry half-smile.

Sally held up her two-thirds empty bottle. “I think we need more beer. Come on, get dressed. We’re going out. We’re going to cry in our beers over what idiots we were. And if anyone tries to pull either one of us, god help him! I’m never talking to another man in a pub again in my life!”

Sherlock picked up his dinner and sank back into the sofa. He was actually considering going to a pub and getting pissed with Sally Donovan. He chewed a chip thoughtfully. _Why not?_ Sally and he had a common bond. She’d certainly been rude to him in the past, but he’d returned it to her double. Perhaps it was time to call a truce and try be civil. She had made an effort to reach out to him. “I’ll be a good shield for you. Any men in the pub would assume we’re on a date.”

A dazzling smile light Sally’s face. “Oh, this will work. This will work out fine. Watch out, Sherlock, you might end up becoming my fake boyfriend for events where I’m expected to bring a date. It would shut my grandma right up if I were to show up with you on my arm!” She giggled playfully and stuck out her hand. “Deal?”

Sherlock took her hand and shook it formally. “Deal. Just give me a moment to get dressed.” He got up slowly - _damnation, those ribs still hurt!_ \- and walked a little unsteadily down the hallway to the bedroom. He didn’t feel like putting on a tight dress shirt and tighter suit. He riffled through his dresser until he found a long-forgotten pair of black denim Levis. He also found a black knit Polo shirt . He vaguely remembered wearing them to pose as a valet two years back to crack an automotive theft operation. He pulled them on and rummaged around in the bottom of his wardrobe until he found a pair of black motorcycle boots from some long-forgotten disguise. When he was dressed and shod he walked carefully back into the living room. Sally gave a loud wolf whistle. “Jesus, Sherlock, I think it’s some kind of crime for you to go out in public in those jeans.”

Sherlock smiled broadly. “Come on, Sally. There’s alcohol waiting and it’s not going to drink itself.”

Sherlock was surprised to find that Sally was actually good company once he got past her gruff exterior. They did get pissed and cry in their beers, and for just a few hours Sherlock was able to talk about John with someone who _knew_ , knew the pain, someone who had believed and loved and been beaten hurt as a result. Sherlock would never have suspected that Sally, of all the 8.3 million people in London, would be the one who could understand. Afterward they walked unsteadily back to Baker Street and Sally made to leave him at the door.

“I had a good time, Sally.” Sherlock gave her a slightly fuzzy half-smile.

“Yeah, me too. I still think you’re a shit when you stick your nose into my crime scenes. But you’re not so bad as a drinking buddy. You kept the wolves away. But you’re still too skinny. I’ll be back with more food.” Sally called Sherlock a ‘shit’ like it was an endearment. She knocked her elbow gently against his arm then turned away and headed toward the Tube station.

Sherlock walked upstairs smiling for the first time in the weeks that he’d been convalescing. A thought popped into Sherlock’s head that he couldn’t wait to tell John about his night with Donovan. He winced and regretted the half dozen pints he’d had over the course of the evening. The alcohol was inhibiting his carefully constructed mental defenses that kept him from thinking such thoughts. It was _hard_ to break the habit of nearly a decade, hard to restructure his thoughts to remove the automatic impulse to share new things with John. 

Sherlock sighed and headed to the bedroom. He stripped off his clothes and slipped on the pyjama bottoms he’d left on the bed. The warm mood he’d left Sally with was gone - swept away by his own traitorous thoughts. He crawled carefully under the duvet and laid on his uninjured side and tried to reconstruct his mental defenses as he fell asleep.


	20. Something shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to have ups and downs, but moves more toward restored health. 
> 
> Loved ones often expect victims of abuse to bounce back quickly once they are free from the abusive relationship. In fact, it can take months and years with ups and downs.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Detailed description of physical assault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter note: I have no idea how libraries work in London. The information I found online was very confusing, so I am using a typical public library in the US as a model for the library scene. If there’s anyone from the UK reading and would like to help with info about libraries, I would be forever thankful. My email address is in my profile if you’d like to drop me an email with info. TIA

The first case lead to another and then another. Sherlock wasn’t back to working full-time, but took enough cases to get him out of the house a few times a week. The blog languished – Sherlock had no interest in updating it but he needed it to bring in private cases. Mycroft found a solution. He recommended a PR agency to his brother. The agency could make updates the blog using John’s style of writing. It meant that Sherlock would have to write up notes from cases and email them to the agency. 

Since paperwork wasn’t Sherlock’s strong suit, it became a bickering point between the brothers. Mycroft would badger Sherlock to write his case notes for the agency; in fits of pique, Sherlock would go long periods without making a single note. Then Mycroft would show up at Baker Street with food and wine and sit with Sherlock until he caught up on all his cases and submitted the notes to the agency. Sherlock avoided it because the blog, while it legally belonged to him now, was still in John’s name due to its fame. 

Every time he looked at the blog, Sherlock missed John anew but he also couldn’t bear to start a new blog in his own name. It was the last tangible thing he had of John’s; it hurt but he cherished it anyway since Mycroft had stripped Baker Street of any sign of John while Sherlock was convalescing. Not a single picture remained nor a memento of shared memories with the man Sherlock still loved even though logically he knew he shouldn’t.

***X***X***

“It’s like learning a new language.” Sherlock made the statement while sharing prime rib and merlot with Mycroft in his Diogenes office. 

“And to what would you be referring?” Mycroft replied in his usual clipped way. 

“Having to adjust to saying ‘I’ and not using we.”

Mycroft’s expression made it clear to Sherlock that his brother was not following, so Sherlock continued, “I never realized how often I used ‘we’ to refer to something John and I had done or someplace we’d gone. There, I did it again. After so many years of ‘we,’ it’s hard to adjust to using ‘I.’ And since we did nearly everything together the past five years I have many ‘we’ memories. Nearly everyone I know really does not want to hear about John or be reminded of him, including you, so I have to overwrite over my memories of the past nine and a half years to use ‘I’ when I’m speaking of the past. ‘I’ went to Florida. ‘I’ worked a particular case. ‘I’ took the flat at Baker Street. It’s really tiresome.”

Mycroft gave his brother a long, sympathetic look. “I am sure you’re up to it, Sherlock. Use your mind palace to lock up the memories. Overwrite them with memories of the same events solely from your own point of view.”

Picking up his wineglass and swirling the dark liquid, Sherlock heaved a sigh. “ Of course I’m smart enough. It’s just. As if I have to censor nearly a decade of my personal history. It’s painful to edit one’s past.”

“It’s fine to switch off your censor when we’re together.” Mycroft’s eyes were soft; his normally sharp expression relaxed into one of affection and empathy.

Sherlock shook his head and sighed again. “What’s the use? Then I just have to remember to reinstall it when I leave. I may as well leave it in place.”

Mycroft wanted to stand and hug his brother. It was obvious to him that Sherlock was struggling. He wanted to offer him the comfort he’d given so freely while Sherlock convalesced. But their relationship was returning to its former equanimity. Their usual roles were back in place, but a deeper affection remained that had been missing before. Sherlock was freer around Mycroft, more open than he’d been since he was a young child. Mycroft was milder, too, more affectionate in his own restrained way. Instead of taking his brother in his arms, Mycroft reached across the table and squeezed Sherlock’s hand once.

“Again, I am sorry, It does sound difficult.” For the thousandth time, Mycroft wished there was something he could do to make things better for his brother.

***X***X*** 

 

“Sherlock, dear, I was wondering if you could help me with something.” Mrs. Hudson came through the door to 221B with a plate of fresh-baked scones.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. He was seated at the desk in pyjamas and dressing gown even though it was well after noon. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I was thinking of sprucing up the place a bit. A bit of paint can really brighten a room. I thought I’d start with the upstairs bedroom. There’s no reason for you not to use it as a study or an office. I thought of getting someone to cart off that dodgy old furniture. Then painting it something nice and sunny. What do you think? You could move all these papers and books up there.” Mrs. Hudson finished with an eager expression.

Sherlock’s heart contracted. He knew Mrs. Hudson was doing this for him, to help remove painful traces of John from the flat. Sherlock still hadn’t opened the door to the upstairs bedroom even though several months had gone by. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Painting would be an opportunity to work the stiffness out of my shoulders.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled brightly. “Then let’s not delay. Would you mind looking up someone to take the furniture on your computer? You’re better at these things than I am.” She took a seat on the sofa and watched while Sherlock tapped at the keyboard sitting at the desk. The sound of his fingers flying over the keys filled the flat. In a few minutes he’d found a charity that took furniture donations for a domestic violence shelter serving both women and men. He made a call and arranged for them to pick up the furniture the following day. Mrs. Hudson was beaming when he pressed END on his mobile. “Thank you, dear. I thought perhaps we could pick out paint colors today, if you’re free.”

“I don’t have anything on for today.” Sherlock winced and wish he’d thought to lie – he hated shopping and would rather stay at home.

Mrs. Hudson headed downstairs. Thirty minutes later Sherlock found her dressed for their outing in a green print dress that complimented her complexion and her best brown tweed coat. Sherlock tucked her hand into his elbow as they walked the dozen blocks to the closest paint store. He wondered at how frail her hand had become and winced that he hadn’t noticed before. Really, he had to start taking more notice of things outside his own head. He half-listened while Mrs. Hudson rambled on about different shades of yellow and how the northwest-facing window would affect the color at different times of day. Sherlock really didn’t care what color his dear landlady picked - he was too busy dreading opening the second bedroom’s door. 

He held the door for Mrs. Hudson as they entered the shop. Sherlock found the fluorescent lighting painful and the display of paint cards overwhelming. Perhaps he wasn’t as ready to face redecorating the second bedroom - _John’s room_ \- as he first thought. Mrs. Hudson chatted on as she picked up one paint card after another but Sherlock couldn’t focus on her words. John’s room. They were going to get rid of the furniture and redecorate John’s room. The last trace of John left at Baker Street, the bed that John had slept in during the years before they became a couple. The wardrobe where John had hung his clothing. The dresser where John had stored his pants and vests. The bedside table where John had set his gun while he slept.

The colorful display of paint cards blurred before Sherlock’s eyes as the room tiled around him. He staggered across the shop to a desk littered with wallpaper sample books. He jerked a chair out and dropped inelegantly into it; he spread his knees wide and bent double with his head between his knees. There wasn’t enough air in the shop - he was suffocating.

Mrs. Hudson finally noticed Sherlock’s absence. She turned to him with a concerned look on her face. “Oh dear Sherlock. Are you all right? It’s rather warm in here, isn’t it?” She went to his side and patted his shoulder. Sherlock sat up and propped an elbow on top of one of the sample books on the desk then leaned his forehead into his hand. He kept his eyes tightly shut. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I’m not feeling very well.”

The sweet older lady looked on in concern. “It’s alright, dear. We can take home some paint cards and come back another day to make our final selection. Let me get the clerk to call us a cab. You wait right here.”

Mrs. Hudson bustled off toward the cashier with paint cards in her fist. Sherlock folded his arms on the desk and laid his head on them. _I am not having a heart attack. I’m not!_ She was back in less than two minutes and pulled a chair close to his, sat, then wrapped her arm around his shoulder and patted gently. “I’m sorry dear. It’s too soon. I thought it would do you good to freshen up John’s old room. I shouldn’t have pushed you. You just take your time, we’ll get to that stuffy old room eventually. There’s no hurry.”

The room was still spinning even though Sherlock had been taking deep, even breaths for nearly four minutes. The shop door opened and he heard familiar footsteps. Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson had called his brother, not a cab.. Sherlock realized - as he felt his brother’s warm hand on his shoulder - that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had planned this outing and that Mycroft had waited nearby in case something adverse happened. And adverse it was. Sherlock realized he was having a full-blown panic attack, the first one he’d had since before meeting John. He reached up and covered Mycroft’s hand with his own. Mycroft turned his palm to his brother’s and squeezed.

“Let’s get you home, Sherlock. You’ve had enough outing for today.” Mycroft’s voice was warm but firm. He helped Sherlock to stand with a hand under his elbow then lead him out the shop door to the waiting town car. They stood back and let Mrs. Hudson enter first, then Mycroft helped his brother in and sat beside him.

Sherlock’s legs were ridiculously long to be sitting in the middle of the bench seat. He had no choice but to splay them and crowd both his brother and Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson patted his hand and kept up a stream of chatter to distract him. Sherlock felt better the closer they got to Baker Street. Home. He wanted _home._ But home was a quiet, lonely place now. He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought. “Thank you,” he murmured to both his brother and Mrs. Hudson. “I do appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

Mrs. Hudson squeezed his hand. “It’s alright dear. These things take time. We’ll try it again another day.”

Mycroft helped both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson out of the car then followed them inside. Mrs. Hudson went to her flat and the two men trudged up the stairs. Sherlock sat in his chair while Mycroft stood at the fireplace.

“Would you consider moving?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I like it here. I wouldn't want to leave Mrs. Hudson.”

Mycroft crossed to the sofa and sat down heavily. “Then you need to make it your own, Sherlock. Everything here is a reminder of Doctor Watson. I’ve told Mrs. Hudson I’m happy to pay for a full renovation.” Mycroft looked around and gestured left and right to indicate the entire flat. “Anything you want. New furniture, strip this wallpaper, how about a new kitchen? You can pick it out. Really make this your home.”

Sherlock sighed wearily. “This is my home. I like things as they are. I don’t need a new kitchen or new furniture.” The thought of changing the flat made Sherlock’s stomach drop. Mycroft had already stripped it of any trace of John. The only thing Sherlock had left was the frankly hideous wallpaper, the heavy dust-filled draperies, the ratty furniture that all held connotations of John. 

“Alright, Sherlock. Just let me know if you change your mind in the future.” Mycroft sounded certain that Sherlock would change his mind, but Sherlock doubted he’d ever want to part with the things he owned that held a trace of John.

***X***X***

Sherlock spent the morning in the public library archives room. He needed some research that was not available online and could only be done using the archive’s rare books collection. After several hours of pouring over dusty tomes, his notes were complete so he shook out his coat to get the dust out, returned the books he’d taken to the archives desk and left the overwarm top floor of the building. 

He headed down the stairs and across a large open area to the closest exit. His path took him through the technology center - rows and rows of computers set up in mini carrels, nearly all of them in use. The area was quiet, each user intent on their own screen, silent except for the whirr of tiny fans inside each desktop. At the sight of the anonymous computers Sherlock suddenly had an idea. He veered off his path and instead approached the librarian’s desk. A woman sat behind it in an uncomfortable looking office chair, fully intent on her own screen. _Mid fifties, divorced, four grown children, one grandchild, librarian is her second career, one small dog, two cats, drinks a little too much, takes the Tube to work but walks home, reads romance novels and watches reality telly._

Sherlock put on his ‘charmingly helpless’ wide-eyed smile. He pitched his voice an octave higher than usual and added a breathlessness to it that wasn’t normally present. “Hiiiii. I seem to have left my library card at home…”

The librarian looked up and unintentionally interrupted him by blurting out enthusiastically, “You’re Sherlock Holmes! I’ve read about you in the papers!”

Sherlock kept up his helpless-little-puppy act that always worked so well on middle aged women of thecaretaking-type. “Yeeesss, I am. And I’m in a bit of a pinch. I need to pop on to a computer for just a sec. I was in the archives and I’ve just realized I need to research one more item before I leave. But I’ve left my card at home. Could you, by chance, sign me on?” He widened his smile and crinkled his eyes imploringly.

“Oh, I love Dr. Watson’s blog. The things the two of you get up to! Makes me laugh right out loud!” She beamed at Sherlock but didn’t appear to have heard his question.

Sherlock closed his smile just a bit. The librarian had obviously not seen the news release about his and John’s separation. It was best to keep the interaction to a minimum so he could get what he wanted and be on his way, so he let it pass. “Why, thank you so much. Yes, we did have some adventures, didn’t we? Now, would you be able to sign me on to a workstation for just a few minutes? I forgot my card and I’m in a bit of a rush.”

It now appeared like the librarian had actually taken in everything Sherlock had said earlier in their conversation. She stood, a bit flustered, and walked toward an empty computer carrel at the end of the closest aisle. “Just wait until I tell my sister I met Sherlock Holmes! I was running on a bit there, wasn’t I? You must be busy, sorry to keep you. Normally I’d just look up your card number for you but since you’re in a hurry, I’ll just use my ID.”

Sherlock gave her is most charming, grateful smile. “Thank you soooo much...” He glanced at the employee badge hanging from the lanyard around her neck. “...Susan. You can’t imagine how much you’ve helped me today. Please, give my regards to your sister.”

Susan blushed as she sat down at the computer and entered her credentials. She stood quickly and said, “There you go, Mr. Holmes. All set.” She smiled widely, loath to end their interaction.

Sherlock took the seat she’d just vacated and nodded. He thought it best not to reply or he’d never get rid of her. He turned his eyes toward the screen and clicked to open Chrome. Susan hovered a bit but returned to her desk when she realized that Sherlock would not be replying. Sherlock was glad she’d chosen a carrel that faced her desk, not one where she could see the screen. From the corner of his eye he saw that she continued to stare dreamily in his direction. He ignored her and began his search:

 _Dr John Watson_

He had to know. Sherlock just had to find out where John had picked to settle, where he was living now, where he was working. Sherlock knew Mycroft monitored his internet activity on both his laptop and his phone. He could have used a computer in the lab at Bart’s, but he wasn’t certain that Mycroft didn’t also have those lines tapped, and he didn’t want to seem pathetic in front Molly. 

Intellectually he knew he needed to move on, that his relationship with John was well and truly over, but still there was something outside of his intellect that made it almost impossible, during all those long hours where he couldn't sleep, not to think about John, wondering where he was, what he was doing, how he was. The ache to know had become nearly unbearable. He pushed the Enter key with his little finger. 

The Google search generated over 1,000 results. He overlooked news stories of John and his past cases and John’s blog. He automatically skipped over the results that consisted of news stories and John's blog entries. He still had hundreds of results left. Who would have known that there would be that many doctors named John Watson in the world? 

He tried again: _Dr John H Watson_

That narrowed things down considerably. Sherlock was able to click through the eight likely candidates quickly: A dermatologist in Queensland, a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles, an epidemiologist at the US Centers for Disease Control, an obstetrician in Chicago, a GP in Wellington, a hospital chief of staff in Princeton, a surgeon in Dundee - and finally, a GP in Edinburgh. 

The page he’d opened for Edinburgh Family Practice featured pictures of the seven doctors who staffed the clinic. And featured prominently at the top of the page: 

_Edinburgh Family Practice welcomes our newest doctor_

_You might recognize Dr. John H Watson from his famous crime-solving days in London. Often featured in the news, Dr. Watson and his former partner in crime Sherlock Holmes helped the Met solve the most perplexing of crimes. Dr. Watson is ready to leave his former always-on-the-go lifestyle and focus on medicine. He’s with us now to help you solve the puzzle of your health._

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the flowery description. Obviously some over-enthusiastic administrator wanted to capitalize on John’s notoriety to bring in new patients. How droll. 

But the picture that accompanied the text made his breath hitch. John, looking handsome as ever in a sky blue dress shirt, navy suit jacket and navy-and-yellow patterned tie. He wore his best ‘I’m a competent professional, you can trust me’ expression, the one he’d often adopted when dealing with hysterical people at crime scenes or overemotional clients. His small smile showed the barest hint of straight, white teeth; his navy blue eyes looked into the camera earnestly, crinkling at the corners. 

He looked - good. John looked good, and healthy, and calm and unaffected by the dramas that had ruled Sherlock’s life over the past few months. He didn’t look like he’d been awake in the dead of night wondering if Sherlock was okay - no, he looked _exceptionally_ well rested. Something shifted inside of Sherlock at the sight. Something that had been clenched eased a bit and he felt like there was suddenly just a little bit more space inside of his ribcage for his lungs to expand and contract. He took a deep breath, deeper than he’d been able to since he’d woken up covered in blood and filled with agony on his living room floor all these months ago. He sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair and relished the feeling. 

Sherlock redefined his search again: _Dr. John H Watson Edinburgh_

This search generated fewer results but all the ones he got were all on target. He took a scrap of paper from the small pile beside the keyboard. _Susan the librarian uses her down time to cut discarded paper into note paper for the workstations in her area and stock pencil stubs she buys with her own funds so her patrons will have what they need._ He looked up and met Susan’s eyes and gave her a grateful smile. He could have set up a new gmail account and emailed the links to himself, then deleted it before Mycroft found out, but it was easier to just jot notes on the back of a note paper with printing on the other side. Susan smiled back warmly. 

He clicked through the search results and quickly wrote down John’s clinic’s address, his home address and even his phone number. John obviously wasn’t concerned with keeping his privacy online. The last link Sherlock opened took him to a new blog, started three weeks after the assault. He read through the entries. John told of ‘his decision’ to end things with Sherlock, ‘his decision’ to leave consulting detective work and focus on medicine, ‘his decision’ to move to Scotland to be closer to his cousins. He described his new flat; it sounded like a nice place within walking distance from the clinic. Mycroft’s staff certainly had ensured that John had the best setup possible for his new life. 

Blog entries went on to describe interesting illnesses that John had encountered at the clinic, visits with cousins at various locations in Scotland, and then… Sherlock drew a sharp breath and leaned forward, eyes narrowed at the screen as he read: 

_“I’ve met someone. A woman, that is. I guess I really have moved on, again. She’s nice, and quiet, and there’s no drama about her. Just the type of person I need in my life after so many years with a madman. She’s a computer specialist at the hospital so I guess you could say we sort of met through work. She came to the clinic to sit with our office staff and train them on a new computer system. There’s plenty of room in my flat so she’s moved in. Wish us luck.”_

Sherlock drew several deep breaths. His hands shook on the keyboard so he dropped them into his lap. John had moved on - so quickly. Barely five months gone and he was living with a woman who worked as a computer specialist at a hospital in Edinburgh. A woman who brought no drama into his life. A woman who was nice and quiet and who he’d met through work. 

Sherlock felt sick. He glanced at Susan-the-librarian. Thankfully, she was immersed in something on her screen. He shut down the computer he’d been using and quickly ducked out without saying goodbye. He didn’t think he could don the persona for her again. 

He thrust open the side door and stumbled down the exterior steps. He found a black town car waiting at the kerb. The door opened. He careened through and dropped gratefully onto the plush back seat. 

Mycroft sat as cool and composed as ever but concern showed in every line of his face. “Really, Sherlock, did you think it was that easy?” 

Sherlock slumped against the door as the car pulled into traffic. “I … I wasn’t thinking. Of course you can tap into the library’s computer network as easily as my laptop. Of course you had me followed.” Sherlock’s voice shook. Not in anger (he actually was very grateful for his brother’s presence at the moment) but in something else, some mix of emotions too muddled for him to even begin to untangle. 

“Now you know.” Mycroft’s words were curt but his tone was kind. 

Sherlock peered out the side window and sighed. “Yes. Now I know.” 

“I am sorry, brother. Doctor Watson seems to have a habit of moving on quickly. Men of his ilk often do." 

Sherlock nodded, still unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes. He sniffed and answered, “Yes. Maybe it’s time I do the same.” 

“At your own pace, Sherlock, you’ll do things in your own time. Now it’s time to focus on yourself for a while.” 

Sherlock drew a hand from his forehead to his chin. He sighed before meeting Mycroft’s eyes. 

"It is time.” 

***X***X***

The large manila envelope Mycroft held out to Sherlock gave no hint of its contents. Sherlock took it gingerly. He tipped it into the light looking for clues as to its contents but its very ordinariness stumped him. He knew Mycroft wanted him to ask; that fed his determination not to. He threaded his index finger under the flap and began carefully unsealing its glue. 

“Wait, Sherlock. Before you open that, you need to know. I am doing this for your own good. It contains the photographs from the night you were assaulted. I would also like to play the recordings of the phone calls for you.” 

Sherlock shook his head and dropped the envelope onto the coffee table. They’d been standing, facing each other in front of the fireplace, but now Sherlock flounced to the sofa and threw himself down. He regretted his decision to dress in suit and dress shirt that morning; a good flounce held more dramatic flair when he was wearing his dressing gown. It was difficult to settle himself comfortably curled up to face the back of the sofa when a tight shirt and fitted jacket bound his shoulders. 

“Sherlock, you need to see this, to hear it. I think it will help to lesson your continued … attachment … to Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s tone was soft but firm. 

“I’ll look at them later,” Sherlock said to the sofa’s back cushions. 

Mycroft crossed the room quietly and carefully stacked the papers littering the coffee table to clear a place to sit. He sat and picked up the envelope from the top of the stack. 

“This is not something you should do alone, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at his brother. Something in Mycroft’s expression made him sit up and take the envelope. He slipped his finger and thumb into the open end and drew out several glossy, full-color 8X10 photographs. The top photograph showed a body on a threadbare red rug, face, hair, neck and upper torso drenched in shockingly red blood. Sherlock blinked when he realized the body he was looking at was himself, immediately after Mycroft pulled John off of him. Well, he assumed Mycroft pulled John off. He’d never asked. 

“Did you …” Sherlock swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He tried again but kept his eyes focused on the photograph. “Was it you who pulled him off?” 

“Yes, my men and I. There were three of us in the car when I got the calls. It took two to restrain him.” 

Sherlock shuffled the top picture to the back of the stack. The next photograph was a closeup showing his chest and face. The layer of subcutaneous fat showed clearly in the cut in his eyebrow. The gash was so deep it had bisected his brow down to the corrugator muscle. Every inch of skin visible in the photograph shone wetly crimson in the camera’s flash. Blood flowed in a dark stream from his nose and the cut in his bottom lip. His face had already began to swell even though it was evident that the injuries were freshly inflicted. But what riveted his attention and caused the bottom to drop out of his stomach was the red imprints of two hands on the skin of his neck in the photograph. It was obvious that only seconds before the photograph was taken, hands matching those imprints had circled his throat and squeezed with the intent to cut off his air supply. 

Something shifted inside him, similar to what he’d felt at the library the day before, when he’d read John’s new blog, but wider, deeper. The space in his ribcage that had allowed him to breathe a little easier the past twenty hours expanded even more. Sherlock felt lighter, even more free than he had the previous day. 

He looked up at his brother; something in Mycroft’s eyes that told him that Mycroft had deduced Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock realized when the lines of his brother’s face relaxed slightly that Mycroft had been concerned that Sherlock would react badly to seeing the photographs. 

Sherlock quickly shuffled through the rest of the pictures:  
\- John being restrained by two men in dark suits, his arms held behind his back. John looked angry and defiant, even deranged. He was clearly struggling against the hands holding him.  
\- Sherlock, still laying on the rug, with two paramedics bent over him partially hiding his face and torso.  
\- A close up of John’s hands, covered in blood, showing broken skin at his knuckles.  
\- John’s mug shot from the Met, both full face and profile. John looked outraged.  
\- A shot of Sherlock being rolled to his side by the paramedics, obviously limp as a ragdoll. 

The last photograph caused Sherlock to pause. It showed his back. The paramedics had evidently just cut off his jacket and shirt - they lay in pieces beside him in the picture. The skin of his back was tattered and literally hung in shreds. A gaping cut started above his waist and ran diagonally across his right side to the middle of the shoulder blade. Blood poured from it. Of all the new scars on his back now layered over the scars of his earlier torture at the hands of Moriarty's men, this was the one that gave Sherlock the most trouble. It had healed to a thick, tight rope and often pinched when he reached overhead. He’d studied first the stitches and later the scar over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror but he didn't really understand the extent of the injury until he saw it, untreated, in the photograph. The space in his ribcage expanded even more. He took a deep breath and let it out in a shushing noise through pursed lips. 

Sherlock arranged the photographs neatly and slid them back into the envelope. He sat it on top of the papers on the coffee table. Mycroft watched him intently from his seat on the coffee table. Sherlock glanced up and held his gaze. “I’m all right, Mycroft. You don’t need to crowd me. I’m not going to fall apart at the sight of my abused body.” 

Mycroft tilted his head to one side, clearly confused by Sherlock’s reaction. “Seeing these..” 

Sherlock cut him off. “Something changed yesterday when I looked John up online. When I read his new blog.” 

Mycroft nodded. 

“It changed something. Like I’ve been set free.” Sherlock gave Mycroft a small smile. “I realize I’ve been focused on missing John these last months. But, Mycroft. I'm ready to … move on.” 

“Then perhaps you won’t need me to play the recordings.” 

Sherlock paused to think it over. “I would like to hear them.” 

Mycroft withdrew his phone from his breast pocket. He thumbed the screen a few times then adjusted the volume. Mrs. Hudson’s voice filled the room: 

_‘Mycroft! Hurry, you must come right away. Something awful is happening upstairs, I’m afraid John is hurting Sherlock! Hurry!’_ Mycroft’s voice assured Mrs. Hudson he was just minutes away. Mrs. Hudson’s voice rose with worry as she said _‘Please, hurry!’_

Sherlock winced at the fear in his dear landlady’s voice and also at the background noises in the recording. Loud screams, nearly as loud as Mrs. Hudson’s voice but clearly coming through walls. And another voice shouting, loud but not loud enough to make out words. Sherlock swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the sounds of his own screams and John’s shouts. He wasn’t sure if he could endure the other calls but before he could tell Mycroft to shut it off, the second recording started: 

_‘Mr. Holmes, you asked me to call if I heard anything. There’s a terrible row next door and I’m afraid your brother is screaming.’_ Mrs. Turner’s voice, nearly as agitated as Mrs. Hudson’s had been, paused and Sherlock could hear the screams in the background. _‘Please come, I’m afraid Dr. Watson is hurting him. Hurry, please.’_ Mycroft’s voice murmured assurances that he was only two minutes away then the call ended. 

The third recording started immediately - Teddy from next door’s voice this time: 

_‘Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry to bother you but there’s something going on next door and I think you need to come. Sherlock is screaming and I think John is beating him. It’s so loud my picture frames are rattling. Can you hurry, please?’_ Mycroft’s voice assured Teddy that he was only a few blocks away before the call ended. 

While the pictures had been painful to see, the phone calls were absolute agony to endure. A chill ran down Sherlock’s spine at hearing how worried his friends had been on his behalf. And the screams - his own voice screaming in the background. Sherlock shivered and dropped his chin nearly to his chest. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply to calm his churning gut. 

Mycroft moved from the coffee table to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock took a few more deep breaths before opening his eyes and facing Mycroft. “I’m all right.” 

Mycroft gave Sherlock a searching look, scanning his eyes then his face, then back to his eyes. Sherlock must have given his brother what he was looking for because Mycroft replied, “Yes, I think you are.” 


	21. I learned kindness from the unkind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock continues to recover his emotional and mental health and move on from the abusive relationship. Friends help him realize things about himself that he could never have discovered alone.

The things he had feared for so long – living alone, being without John, working without John – slowly became a new normal for Sherlock. He wasn’t the same person he’d been before John and also wasn’t the man he’d been with John. A new version of Sherlock settled in. A version that was softer around the edges than before, kinder, more content to remain silent and let others talk and to an extent he was even more patient with other people. He was less arrogant and more compassionate. He even came to tolerate Anderson, who had been devastated over the assault and went out of his way to be friendly afterward. The biting comments came less frequently on all sides; their new collaboration formed Sally, Anderson and him into a solid team with Sherlock a respected member.

 

***X***X***

Mrs. Hudson resumed her old role in 221B, flitting in and out several times a day to pamper Sherlock. Sherlock rolled out of bed at half ten to find a plate of fresh biscuits on his kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson had moved aside some clutter to leave room for the plate, plus a small card propped against it in her spidery handwriting:

_I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet, strange, I am ungrateful to those teachers. ~Khalil Gibran_

Sherlock turned the card over in his hand while he chewed. At first the quote seemed trite, even sarcastic. But he thought more deeply about it as he made coffee, filled a mug and sat down at the table to have another biscuit. 

_Silence from the talkative_ \- well, if Mrs. Hudson was referring to herself, she sure missed the mark on that one. But Sherlock thought back to his childhood, to chattering away to his parents and brother about new discoveries. He’d become more silent after starting school, where the other children seemed to babble without end. When he’d tried to join in, they’d called him freak and shunned him. So, he had learned silence from the talkative.

 _Toleration from the intolerant_ \- Sherlock huffed at the poor word choice. Obviously the author had meant ‘tolerance.’ If Mrs. Hudson were referring to herself, she was spot on. She was one of the most tolerant, accepting people Sherlock had ever encountered. And what about himself? He’d certainly learned a lot from the intolerant prats he’d had the misfortune to encounter in his lifetime. While he’d hardly call himself tolerant, it seemed to him that he was more accepting than the majority of other people he’d encountered.

 _Kindness from the unkind_ \- kindness from the unkind. Unkind. John had certainly been unkind to him for quite some time. He suspected that Mr. Hudson had been quite a bit more unkind to Mrs. Hudson than she’d ever let on. As painful as it was, they had both ultimately profited from that lesson.

He looked up at the sound of Mrs. Hudson breezing through the doorway. 

“There you are, dear. I was beginning to wonder if you’d sleep the morning away.” She flitted over the front windows and drew the curtains wide. “Just look at what a beautiful day we have! I didn’t want you to miss it. Was just about to make some noise to wake you up.”

Sherlock returned her warm smile. _Kindness from the unkind._ Mrs. Hudson was the embodiment of kindness and had been since he’d met her. Surely, if she could take the unkindness she’d received and come out the other side so dear, there was hope for him?

“I see you found the card. That quote helped me through a lot. I thought you might like it.” Mrs. Hudson beamed at Sherlock. “There’s a lot there in just a few words. As smart as you are, you’ll find things in it I haven’t thought of. So take it or leave it, if if doesn’t speak to you then just bin it.”

Sherlock smiled again. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I think I’ll keep it.”

He stood and slipped it into the magnetic clip of menus hanging on the front of the fridge; he smiled down at it.

 

***X***X***

 

“You think you absorbed the darkness.” Molly blurted it out in her usual awkward way. She leaned on the lab counter as she fiddled with a pen.

Sherlock looked up from the petri dish he was swishing with acid solution. He’d come to Bart’s lab earlier that day. He and Molly had worked in silence for hours. “What?”

“You know, all the dark stuff you went through. You think you absorbed it. But you didn’t.” Molly’s expression was earnest.

Sherlock cocked his head and cut his eyes to the side, clearly thinking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Molly.”

“Everything you went through. All the bad things he did to you. You might have lived them, but you didn’t keep them. Your light let you ... I don’t know, it let you go through it without it soaking in, like water off a duck’s feathers.” Flustered, Molly blushed and turned away.

“Wait, Molly.” Sherlock really wanted to know what she meant. “Please, I do want to know what you mean.”

“It’s like a sponge. If you put a sponge into a bowl of dirty water, the sponge absorbs the dirt with the water. Then it’s dark. But you’re not a sponge. You’re a duck. If a duck swims in dirty water, it climbs out, shakes off and its feathers are clean. You’re like that. You kept from absorbing the darkness. You always had the light, even when it was smothered down to just an ember. It was still there.”

A small smile lifted the corners of Sherlock’s mouth. “I think understand, Molly.”

“You were always you. You’re still you. I mean, all that time you didn’t really change. You might have acted different, but _you_ weren’t different. You’re a good person, Sherlock. Nothing you went through, nothing he did, can change that.” Molly smiled sweetly and took Sherlock’s hand, raising it to his sternum and pressing it there with her own smaller hand. “The good was always there. He didn’t change that. He couldn’t. Darkness can’t smother light. You can’t turn on the dark switch to make a room dark. You have to turn off the light switch. And he couldn’t. Your light is strong. Here, it’s always here.”

Sherlock looked at their hands covering his heart. He smiled again, lifting his chin to smile at Molly. “Thank you, Molly.” 

“I love you, Sherlock. But not like that. Not like I’m in love with you. Oh, bother. I wish English had better words to use. I’m your friend, but people throw around words like _love_ and friend like they’re cheap until they don’t mean anything anymore. I love you as my friend. _Ugh!_ I wish I had different words to use!”

“I do understand, Molly.” Sherlock was about the same height seated on the lab stool as Molly was standing so he was able to meet her eyes levelly. “And thank you.” 

“Any time, you know that, Sherlock. Any time you need a friend.” 

Sherlock nodded. 

***X***X***

Sherlock had been working a case with the Met for over 24 hours. What had been an interesting case ended with a whimper when the murderer surrendered himself at NSY in the middle of the night, just as Sherlock was getting close to deducing his hiding place. It left the entire team with an excess of adrenaline and no way to work it off. 

Sherlock walked down the stairs with Lestrade, who offered him a ride home, even though Sherlock always refused. But this time Sherlock accepted; he was not looking forward to going home to an empty flat. They chatted easily about the case on the way and when they arrived at Baker Street Greg parked the car at the side of the road. Greg got out and followed Sherlock into 221B without being asked. Neither man admitted that they just didn’t want to be wakeful and alone: Greg had moved into his own flat and was finally ending things with his unfaithful wife.

Greg settled on the sofa while Sherlock fetched beer from the fridge. They drank in companionable silence for a while before Greg looked around, gesturing as he spoke. “Sherlock, have you thought about fixing this place up a bit? Paint, get a new armchair. Brighten the place up.”

“Did my brother put you up to this?”

“No! Seriously, haven’t talked to him. I was just thinking it might help get rid of memories of. Well, you know.” Greg took a drink to cover his embarrassment over bringing up John.

Sherlock looked around from his seat in his armchair. Suddenly the crowded, chaotic decor felt oppressive. Lestrade was right, it was dark. And depressing. Greg was the third person who had suggested remodeling the flat since the assault. Mrs. Hudson had offered the upstairs bedroom for an office. Perhaps it was time to take her up of that offer, and Mycroft on his offer for renovations. 

Sherlock wasn’t sure which would be more painful: continuing to be surrounded by furniture and decor that reminded him of John or being surrounded by things that held no trace of John. Sometimes he’d uncover an item in the clutter that reminded him so much of John, his throat would constrict and he’d feel dizzy for a few seconds. Other times he took comfort in the familiarity of the jumble in 221B. He was still in the same place, doing the same things he’d been when he and John were together. Was he holding himself back from moving on by holding on to these things? The knife in the mantle he’d stuck there the first time John entered Baker Street. The yellow smiley face he’d spraypainted on the wallpaper. The very wallpaper itself.

“Hmmm. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s time to make this place over.”

“Yeah, make it your own. Pick out paint and wallpaper you like.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a drink from his beer. “Tedious.”

“Hire a decorator. Just tell him what you like and let him pick out the details.”

Sherlock sighed. “Even more tedious.”

It was Greg’s turn to sigh. “Just suggesting ways to make this place a little less gloomy.”

Sherlock realized he’d been a prat. Greg had done so much for him during his convalescence and this was how he repaid the kindness. He tried to sound more enthusiastic. “Mrs. Hudson suggested I use the room upstairs as an office. I could move my desk and files up there. She suggested painting the room yellow.”

Greg chuckled. “Yellow? Seriously?”

“I know. Maybe I should look into hiring a decorator.”

 

***X***X***

 

Molly had brought over a ridiculous movie with lots of explosions and car chases. There was an appallingly unbelievable scene in a dance club with unbearably agonizing music. It was obvious to Sherlock that Molly thought of this as a “guy movie” and thought he’d like it. Sherlock did his best to endure it politely for his friend’s sake and even managed to turn his head in a such a way that Molly couldn’t see when he couldn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes.

She’d also brought apples, grapes and cheddar and arranged an attractive plate of sliced apples, washed grapes and sliced cheese. Sherlock munched apples with cheese in his chair, legs sprawled long in front of him, while Molly curled into the corner of the sofa and popped grapes into her mouth. A bottle of lager dangled from Sherlock’s fingers - his third - while Molly’s sat gathering condensation on the coffee table. It was also obvious she’d chosen the lager with him in mind, not because she enjoyed it. Sherlock found it touching that his friend had gone to lengths to make him happy.

During a particularly trying scene of awkward conversation in an abandoned castle, Sherlock groaned aloud. Molly sat up. “Are you ok?”

Sherlock rolled his head toward the sofa. The leather of the back of his chair squeaked. “I’m fine.” Sherlock rolled his head back toward the telly. Another car chase - _tedious_. He sighed again. “Molly, sometimes it’s just. I miss sitting together. Watching a movie together on the sofa. Touching. ” He hadn’t meant to unburden himself on Molly like that. He raised the lager bottle to his eyes to try to find the alcohol content on the label. _Must be a strong brew._

Molly nodded. “It’s all right. I know what you mean. I haven’t had a boyfriend for nearly a year. I miss it, too.”

Sherlock blushed. “No, not .. sex. That wasn’t what I meant. Just feeling another living person near you.” He smirked at Molly - they both touched dead people often in their lines of work.

“Oh! No. I didn’t mean sex! I mean, just. Holding hands. Having someone’s arm around you. Sitting close. Things like that. I miss it.” Molly looked as flustered as she sounded.

Sherlock nodded, took another long drink from the lager bottle and turned back to the movie.

“Why can’t friends do that? You know, touch. Platonic like. I’m not saying. Well, anything else. Can’t help you there. But. It would help us both. You know, just sit together.” Molly flushed crimson.

Sherlock looked at her for a long time. They’d long ago resolved any romantic feelings Molly had had for him. She was his friend, well and true. He’d never felt attraction for her but she had for him. Would it be unfair to her to touch, knowing she’d been attracted to him? That was years ago - she knew now without a doubt that while he could find women aesthetically pleasing, the female form held no sexual attraction for him.

Molly patted the sofa beside her. Smiled softly. “It’s okay, Sherlock. Come here.”

 _Why not?_ Molly had admitted she missed human touch as much as he did. He rose, picked up his plate and moved it to the coffee table. He sat down close to Molly. She adjusted her legs where they were curled under her then flung her arm around his shoulder. Sherlock settled in, his back against Molly’s side, tucked under her arm. He rested his feet on the coffee table. It was … comfortable, and comforting. Molly smelled of roses and lily of the valley _White Shoulders, eau de toilette not perfume, obviously a gift from her grandmother_ , powder fresh deodorant _Secret, stick_ , and grapes. Her hand dangled over his shoulder. He reached up and covered it with his own. Molly’s hand was small and chapped from the constant hand-washing her job required. He could feel her ribcage expand and contact with her breathing.

It was easier to roll his eyes now that Molly couldn’t see. He started a monologue in his mind of all the plot inconsistencies of the movie - it helped him enjoy it more.

After a bit Molly withdrew her arm and shifted. Sherlock sat up. “Just going to... “ Molly jerked her head toward the hallway.

“Molly, you’re a doctor, you’re my friend, you helped me to the loo a dozen times when I couldn’t help myself, you even pulled down my pants for me. There’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about.” 

Molly laughed and headed down the hall. Sherlock put the DVD on pause, finished his lager and picked up Molly’s. No reason to waste it; he took a drink. He heard water running. Molly came into the living room smoothing her hands down the side of her jeans. 

“There’s white wine in the fridge, already opened. Or there’s a bottle of red in the cupboard with the glasses.” Sherlock held up the bottle she’d been ignoring. “And bring me a towel, the condensation is dripping.”

Molly detoured into the kitchen. Sherlock heard drawers open and close. “Corkscrew is in the third drawer over from the fridge,” he called. After a few minutes she came back with glass of red and a folded tea towel. She mopped the condensation from the battered coffee table then handed the towel to Sherlock. He scooted over to the end of the sofa and laid his arm across the top. “Your turn.”

Molly settled beside him gingerly. She leaned back in the shelter of his arm and stretched out her legs along the sofa - she was small so they fit with room to spare. Sherlock settled his arm around her shoulder. His hand gripped the cap of her shoulder. From this angle he could smell the coconut-lime shampoo and conditioner she used. Molly picked up the remote and hit PLAY.

They ended the film in companionable silence, enjoying the feeling of another person’s weight and warmth. It was cozy, and friendly, and not at all sexual. Sherlock wondered why there was such a societal taboo against friends touching. Why did they all have to be so uptight, wandering around starving for human contact but afraid to reach for it? It made no sense, really. 

He thought about how shocked he’d been when John declared Sherlock to be his ‘best friend’ before his disastrous wedding. Other than the hug during his best man’s speech, John and he hand never touched when they were ‘best friends.’ But it felt as natural as breathing to sit on the couch with Molly leaning against him. Did this make her his ‘best friend’ now? Sherlock supposed it to be true. He thought he’d lost his best friend when he lost his partner but he realized that he’d lost John as his best friend long before the night of the assault. John had not really been a friend to him for a year or more. But Molly had been a constant since that night - even before, when he thought of it. She’d tried to gently warn him against John’s growing abuse, she’d offered to help him. 

And when he needed a friend most, Molly had been a constant in his recovery. His heart warmed at the thought that he had a best friend.

He shifted slightly when the credits started to roll. Molly sat up, tucked her legs under herself and turned toward him. “Thanks. That was nice.” She smiled sweetly. Sherlock dropped his arm to his side.

“Thank you, Molly. It was.”


	22. The greatest love of all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds his happily ever after. As Whitney Houston sang, "The greatest love of all - Learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all."
> 
> Trigger warnings: May trigger extreme happiness and wide smiles!

Sherlock was searing the bristles off a fresh hog hock with his propane torch when Mrs. Hudson came into the living room carrying a familiar thick file folder. She looked puzzled.

“Sherlock, I was just straightening up a bit downstairs and found this in the drawer of the dresser in the foyer. Does it belong to you?” The folder looked even thicker in Mrs. Hudson’s small hands.

Sherlock turned the knob on the torch to cut the flame. He reached for the folder with one hand and took off his safety glasses with the other.

The folder felt heavy as lead in his hand. He thought back to the night he’d stuffed it into the back of the small dresser in the foyer. He’d had such grand plans to fix things with John. He’d thought he could make better right if he just did the right thing, acted the right way, controlled every variable to make John happy. He sighed over how deluded he’d been. He understood now that nothing he could have said or done would have fixed things between John and him. 

He set the folder on corner of the table without examining the contents. “I borrowed it from Mycroft. I’ll give it back to him later today. It’s no longer my concern.”

Sherlock smiled at Mrs. Hudson when he realized that it truly was no longer his problem. Mary’s whereabouts and what she may do to John were no longer issues for him to spend time thinking about. He took a deep breath and felt - _free._

***X***X***

Mycroft’s eyebrows nearly touched his hairline when Sherlock handed him the file later that evening. He tilted his head and gave Sherlock a searching look.

“That matter is no longer of concern to me.” 

“You don’t think Mary is a threat to you?”

“She’ll have read the news. And probably found John’s new blog by now. No, I don’t think she’ll give me much thought now that John’s moved on. It’s him she’s obsessed with.”

Mycroft weighed the heavy file in his hand, his elegant fingers bent around its bulk. “She is still a fugitive. I could use your help. Unless you’d rather Mary find John herself?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John’s hardly hiding. He has his mobile number on his FaceBook page, for gods sake. If she wanted to find him, it would take Mary less than half an hour.”

Mycroft remained silent. A small smirk was his only reply.

“I’m not being vindictive, Mycroft. I don’t want her to find him. It’s just truly not my problem any longer.”

Mycroft seated himself in Sherlock’s chair. He leaned over and slipped the file into his briefcase then pulled out a thin file from the side pocket. “I’ve brought the decorator’s initial sketches and color samples.”

Sherlock took the file and strode to the window to examine its contents in the natural light. He smiled as he thumbed through the sketches. Mycroft had recommended the decorator. He’d visited the flat late one afternoon and spent more time interviewing Sherlock than taking measurements. He’d said he wanted to do a design that reflected Sherlock as a person; and from his initial flip through the sketches, Sherlock felt the decorator had succeeded. He’d picked light grey, white and a soft, faded-barn red as the theme colors. Navy accents were used sparingly but contrasted with the other colors well. The effect was clean, modern, light yet still cozy. Sherlock flipped back to the first sketch to take a longer look.

The sketch of the living room showed a light grey leather sofa, chrome and black lacquer coffee table, Sherlock’s old leather arm chair, and in place of John’s armchair a navy cloth settee. The decorator had retained the furniture Sherlock had requested, such as the display cases. Sherlock had already painted the upstairs bedroom yellow to make Mrs. Hudson happy. He’d been quite surprised to find he liked the color once he was done painting and had moved his desk, bookcases and filing cabinets into the room.

A kitchen sketch showed a new, open design with the walls dividing it from the living room and hallway removed. The new plan would enlarge it significantly and close off the second door into the flat. White wood cabinets topped with industrial stainless steel counters and an integrated stainless sink, with the steel bent to form the deep sink seamlessly. Black-white-red-navy mosaic tile backsplash completed the new look. And the best part - the additional space left by removing the walls and exterior door made room for a freestanding stainless steel lab table with compartments underneath for Sherlock’s lab equipment, and a small under-counter refrigerator for specimens. A double sink would be set into one end of the lab table.

Mycroft had even contracted the decorator to draw up a plan to remodel the small bathroom. The decorator had done a good job fitting in a longer bathtub to accommodate Sherlock’s long legs. The entire bathroom was done in white, from the tub to the subway tiles running three quarters of the way up the walls. Occasional black and red tiles dotted the floor randomly. Sherlock smiled, pleased with the crisp, clean look of the sketch.

Last was the sketch of his bedroom. The walls were done in soft grey textured wallpaper. The furniture was black lacquer and small, soft red rugs were shown beside the bed and in front of the dresser. The heavy draperies at the window were replaced with white wooden blinds. The overall effect made the room seem larger and more cheerful.

Sherlock closed the file and handed it back to Mycroft. “It’s good. I like it all, but there’s one thing missing.”

Mycroft frowned and lifted one eyebrow a centimeter.

“Wallpaper. I want to keep the wallpaper behind the sofa. Surely the decorator can dig up a few rolls to freshen it up?”

Mycroft sighed his relief. “If that’s your only change, I’m sure he can accommodate it. We can have wallpaper printed if need be.” He gave the wallpaper a distasteful glance. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a new pattern?”

“No, this paper was here when I moved in, before John. I like it. It stays.”

***X***X***

Sherlock’s text alert sounded just as he unlocked the front door. He stepped inside and closed the door against the cold before he checked his phone: Sally Donovan.

:: I hear your kitchen’s all torn up. Want to meet for dinner and pints? ::

He grinned at Sally’s message. It was true, both the kitchen and bathroom in 221B were stripped to the studs. Before work had started, Mrs. Hudson had waxed the floor and given the baseboards a coat of beeswax polish in the freshly painted upstairs bedroom. He’d moved his bedroom furniture into it and was able to barely fit it in by shoving his desk and wardrobe into a corner back-to-back. It now served as office, living room and bedroom for Sherlock during the remodel. The rest of the furniture he wanted to keep from the first floor went into the rough-framed unfinished third floor rooms. It was uncomfortable, but would only be for the few weeks it would take the work crew to strip and refinish the floor in his bedroom, paint, paper the walls, install blinds and move in the new furniture. 

Workers turned off the water supply to 221B to do the demo work on the kitchen and bathroom. Mrs. Hudson invited Sherlock to use her bathroom and kitchen with the provision that the kitchen be used only for cooking, not for experiments. He’d taken her up on the offer; most days she ended up cooking for two so Sherlock hadn’t really used her kitchen other than to share meals she’d prepared.

He tapped out a quick reply to Sally giving her the name of a new Pho restaurant he wanted to try then stopped into tell Mrs. Hudson he’d be out for the evening. 

Sally was waiting on the pavement outside the restaurant when he arrived. He held the door for her then followed her in. They found a table near the back of the tiny, crowded restaurant. They chatted about the cases over dinner and Sherlock informed Sally the waiter was padding patron’s bills and pocketing the difference. Sally said she was off duty and not going to bother arresting him, that petty theft wasn’t her area. The crowd at the front door increased while they ate; they decided to find a pub to have an after dinner drink, someplace less crowded. 

Sherlock dug a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket when they were back out on the pavement and shook one out. He lit it and took a deep drag as they fell into step, then glanced sheepishly at Sally. She noticed his look. “What?”

Sherlock gestured with his right hand, the cigarette between his first two fingers. “Don’t you have something to say about it?”

Sally shook her head. “Not my business. Smoke if you want, it doesn’t bother me.”

Sherlock stopped, insight hitting him like a lightning bolt. He’d been waiting for Sally to gripe about his smoking the way that John always had. The last band that had remained clamped around his ribcage loosened when he realized he no longer had to walk on eggshells - not around anyone, not for any reason. His actions now affected only himself. If he wanted to smoke, he could smoke. If he wanted to stay up all night, or skip meals, or stay in his dressing gown for days - it was his business alone. He turned a dazzling smile on Sally as the realization settled into his bones.

“What?” 

“Nothing. Just realized something.”

Sally gave him a sideways look. “Good for you, I guess.”

“Oh, it’s good. You just helped me realize how much less complicated my life is now.”

Dark curls bobbed as Sally nodded. “You’re only beholden to yourself now. Kinda nice, isn’t it?”

Darker curls also bobbed as Sherlock nodded his agreement. “It is.”

“You know, Sherlock, toward the end, you were different when he was around. Quieter. Not really yourself. Like he stifled you.”

Sherlock took another long drag then tipped his head back and blew out a plume of smoke. He watched it dissipate into the night air. “I didn’t know it then, but now I can look back and see it’s true. I was watching what I said, what I did, to try to keep from setting him off. Christ, what a hateful way to live.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there. But you don’t see it while it’s happening. Other people see it and don’t understand why you’re different. But you can look back afterward and see clearly what it was like walking on eggshells.”

Sherlock ground out the cigarette butt on the pavement then bent to retrieve it. He smiled as he flicked it into a bin as they walked past. “Hindsight’s 20/20, it’s that what people say?”

“Going through what we’ve both been through improved foresight, too. I can spot them in a crowd now. Men like that stick out like sore thumbs. Don’t worry, you won’t get caught like that again. You’ll spot them and avoid them now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh. “No worries about that. I’m not planning to make the mistake of getting involved again.”

Sally stopped walking and turned to look him full in the face. “Aw, Sherlock. Don’t say that. You’re barely past forty. You’re one of the most good looking men in London. Don’t close yourself off just because one man was a jerk.”

Sherlock returned her look levelly. “You’re one to talk, Sally. I wasn’t going to mention the fact that Anderson has apparently decided to rekindle things with his wife.”

It was Sally’s turn to roll her eyes. She added a toss of her curls for effect. “Old story. He does this every few months, but it never lasts. He’ll be back in a week or two.”

“And yet, you’re advising me to not close myself off to the prospect of future romance. Really, Sally, aren’t you closing yourself off by playing it safe with Anderson?”

“You got me on that one, Sherlock. But we’re talking about you. You’re young, don’t make up your mind to be alone the rest of your life.”

They arrived at the pub that was their destination. Sherlock was relieved to cut off the line of conversation by opening the door for Sally, but she picked it back up once they found a table. 

Sherlock had had enough of her talk of being open to love. “Sally, I bear the physical reminders of John on my face and back. The scars on my face and the bump where he broke my nose reminded me of John every time I look in the mirror. So forgive me if I don’t feel kindly toward leaving myself open for more of it.”

Sally searched his face before answering. “I understand that, Sherlock, I really do. But the scars and the nose just add interest. Your face is less refined than before but still handsome. Only you could take a licking and come out even better looking that before.”

Sherlock laughed again. “Thank you, but your appraisal of my face doesn’t change the fact that I don’t plan to use it to attract another partner any time soon.”

“Don’t let the scars be symbol of John. Change the way you think about them. When you see them in the mirror, let them remind you that you’re a survivor instead.”

Sherlock shook his head and looked away. “I wish it was really that easy.”

Sally patted his hand where it lay on the table between them. “I’ll drop it, Sherlock. But I’ll hope you can just be open to the idea, if an opportunity with a decent man presents itself.”

 

***X***X***

Sherlock wandered from room to room stroking surfaces, running his hand along textured walls or smooth furniture, sniffing the new scents in the air. The work crew had placed his armchair in the place it had always been. He made the symbolic gesture of moving it to face the sofa more squarely. This was his home now - his and his alone. He’d made it his own. Well, he and a designer, architect, construction foreman and work crew of six workmen. But it was done, and it was his now. 

_Home_. Sherlock now had a home that was truly his own. When he’d moved in, the decor had been done over a long span of years by countless tenants. John had moved in so shortly after him that the concept of 221B/ _home_ was intertwined with memories of John. Now he had a home that was designed around his needs, without having to leave 221B, Central London and of course Mrs. Hudson. Ghosts lingering in Victorian wallpaper and shabby, mismatched furniture had been chased away by the scent of paint and varnish and by new textiles and new furnishings.

“Mrs. Hudson!” One thing that hadn’t changed was Sherlock’s habit of leaving the door open (new door, glossy mahogany) and bellowing down the stairs to get Mrs. Hudson’s attention.

His not-housekeeper came bustling in carrying a tray of freshly-made canapes. “Sherlock, dear, can you put these in your refrigerator? Mine is full up and there are still three trays on my kitchen table waiting to be chilled.” 

Sherlock picked up one of the nibbles. He inspected it - a square of Melba toast topped with crab salad and a paper-thin cucumber slice twisted on top. He popped it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Delicious.”

“I should scold you for dipping into the party food, but it’s so good to see you eat. Have another.”

Sherlock held the refrigerator door open so that Mrs. Hudson could slide the tray inside. She’d already stowed white wine, soft drinks and several types of beer in it. “I hope Mycroft is paying you a caterer’s fee for this ‘do.’”

“Your brother has done a nice turn putting on a housewarming party for you. I’m happy to help in any way I can. And just look at this flat!” Mrs. Hudson spun in a slow circle. “Stunning! It fits you so well, dear.” She reached up and patted Sherlock’s shoulder. Since he’d recovered from his assault, she’d been free in her affectionate touches and Sherlock had become more comfortable accepting them. “You go on and get dressed for the party. Can’t have guests arriving to find you in those ratty old pyjamas, can we?”

When Sherlock emerged from his bedroom half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Mycroft were standing around the kitchen table chatting. Mycroft was using a bottle jack to uncork several bottles of red wine to breathe. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were arranging canapes on several floral-patterned china platters that Sherlock had never seen before. He hoped they belonged to Mrs. Hudson and that she hadn’t slipped them in when they went shopping for new dishes for his remodeled kitchen. They looked out of place in the modern, sleek stainless steel and tile setting. 

The doorbell rang and Sherlock bounded down the stairs to answer. He found the work crew and foreman. It was evident immediately that they’d arranged to meet and arrive as a group, uncomfortable at the idea of being a guest in the posh flat where they’d worked for the past three months. Sherlock stepped back and welcomed them all inside. He followed them up the stairs and took their coats then stood in the living room with the armload of coats, at a loss of where to stow them. Mrs. Hudson told him to go lay them on his bed. While he was doing so, the doorbell rang again. He dumped the coats and hurried down to answer it. His parents bustled in with hugs and kisses and before they’d finished greeting him, Lestrade arrived with Sally and Anderson. One glance told Sherlock that Sally and Anderson had resumed their affair. Instead of calling her out, he gave Sally a knowing smirk. She silently elbowed him in the ribs in reply.

When he’d shepherded everyone upstairs, Sherlock found the party in full swing. Someone had turned on soft background music. Mrs. Hudson was in her element, passing trays and chatting with the work crew. The doorbell rang again; Mummy was closest to the door so she went down and admitted Mrs. Turner, Teddy and Sam from next door.

Even with the new, open floorplan it was a tight squeeze to fit everyone in, especially since most of the guests wanted to see the entire flat, so there was a constant flow of people up to the new study, back to Sherlock’s bedroom and past the remodeled loo. When everyone had circulated and seen their fill, Sherlock stepped to the fireplace and tapped a knife to the side of his wineglass. The chatter stilled and everyone turned toward Sherlock.

“I want to thank Mrs. Hudson for preparing the food” He raised his glass toward her then circled it toward the rest of the room. “And all of you here tonight. I find sentiment tedious so I will keep this brief. Without you, I would not be here today. Thank you for your part in my story, be it small or large. Mrs. Hudson cajoled me into having a housewarming party to celebrate the completion of the remodel. I consider this a frankly ridiculous custom but since Mycroft is footing the bill and you’re already here, you may as well enjoy the expensive wine. Let me just end with one expression of sentiment: I could not have made it to this point without each of you.” He raised his glass again. “Thank you.” 

The flat erupted in applause and cheers. Mrs. Hudson approached Sherlock first, beaming at him and pulling him down in a hug. Mycroft clasped his shoulder then Greg pulled him into a bear hug. Even the workmen, who were clustered together in the corner, crowded around for handshakes. Sherlock realized that he truly had come full circle. Before he’d met John, he’d been alone and thought it protected him. While he was with John, he thought John was his reason for living. Now he understood that his life really was his own, but that it was filled with people who loved him and whom he loved. And that was more than enough. He’d regained the self respect that John had slowly chipped away and he’d come to know how much his family and friends meant to him. He now knew that ‘happily ever after’ comes in many forms, and that loving himself first was the best of them.


	23. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings and possibilities. Sherlock has learned and he's suffered greatly, but Life is slowly shaping up. Life isn’t perfect but but it’s certainly wonderful to be alive.

Sherlock took a booth in the back of the coffee shop. He added two sugars to his cup and stirred it slowly. He could see the door yet the booth afforded some privacy. He grinned into his cup, thinking how ridiculously reticent he’d been to come here today.

Now that he was here, he was glad. It was good to have a few butterflies in his stomach again. He hadn’t felt the buzz of excitement for so long – it was _wonderful._

He’d put off the handsome pathology resident, Desmond, for several months. It was clear to others from his first day that Desmond was interested in Sherlock but Sherlock had been so closed off for so long, he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it even to himself. Desmond was older than a typical resident. He’d had a career as a nurse for eight years in his native Barbados before deciding to try medical school in London. Finally, at 36, he’d completed medical training and taken a resident position studying under Molly at St. Barts. He’d be done in a year and hoped to stay at Bart’s as a fully credentialed pathologist.

They’d shared many interesting conversations in Bart’s lab. Both men had a fascination for the macabre and Desmond often saved specimens from off-beat cases for Sherlock. Sherlock thought it was a friendship based on shared interests and would not let himself realize that Desmond was interested in more. Until the night Molly told him point-blank that Desmond wanted to be more than friends.

Sherlock had walked out with Molly after her shift on that evening. She’d asked him to coffee at the cafe around the corner from the hospital. Sherlock had accepted gratefully. If not for Molly’s true friendship, he might not have survived the past few years. He certainly wouldn’t be where he was now without her help: Happy, healthy, safe, and whole.

Over coffee, Molly had blurted out that Desmond wanted to date him in her blunt, awkward way. He’d choked on a scalding gulp that burned his esophagus all the way down. He’d stared, round-eyed and speechless, as Molly told him Desmond talked of him constantly and had asked her repeatedly if Sherlock would be open to dating. Molly grinned at Sherlock’s shock, took his hand, and encouraged him to say ‘yes’ if Desmond did work up courage to ask him out.

Sherlock had sunk back into the booth, still clasping Molly’s hand tightly. He opened his mouth to tell her he wasn’t interested, but ‘yes’ had popped out instead. To his own surprise, he’d told her that he would be open to a date with the interesting intern. She’d grinned like Christmas morning and said she’d pass along the information.

Instead, Sherlock had taken the initiative the next day. He’d headed to the lab to continue his experiments. The first person he saw was Desmond, seated at the lab table making notes. Sherlock had straightened his spine, strode purposefully toward Desmond, and asked him if he’d like to get coffee after his shift. Desmond had looked up with a delighted smile and agreed.

And now Sherlock was seated at the coffee shop awaiting Desmond’s arrival. He’d intentionally arrived a few minutes early in case he needed time to compose himself. He hadn’t had a date in many years and had wondered if he’d even be able to see it through. Instead, he found himself calm and enjoying the mild excitement in his belly. He liked Desmond a great deal. Desmond was interesting. They shared an easy companionship and never ran out of things to talk about. Desmond was kind to the core without seeming boring. They had talked for endless hours and debated issues; Desmond could _disagree_ without becoming _disagreeable._ A mellow wit accompanied Desmond’s deep intellect. And he was easy on the eye: A few inches taller than Sherlock, lean but not skinny, skin like melted milk chocolate; quite handsome with warm brown eyes that twinkled when he smiled. And what a smile – lush, full, dusky lips and dazzlingly white, even teeth. _This could work. This could work out very nicely._

The bell over the coffee shop door tinkled as Desmond stepped through. Sherlock looked up at the sound to find the handsome intern smiling broadly in his direction. Sherlock returned the smile then glanced down when Desmond went to the counter to place his order. He felt his pulse flutter. _Flutter._ Sherlock Holmes did not _flutter_ – but here he was, pulse aflutter at the sight of his date. _His date!_ The thought sent his pulse into another pleasant flutter. He was meeting an interesting, kind, attractive man for a coffee date. He realized just how far he’d come in five years.

Sherlock’s musings were interrupted when a tall, lean, black haired, brown eyed intern took the seat across the table and smiled brightly just for him. He dragged his attention out of his own head and toward his _date._

 

And his pulse continued to flutter…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are in a violent or unsafe situation, I urge you to visit the National Domestic Violence Hotline at www.thehotline.org and call them at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233). Violence is not love.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my amazing betas, MissDavis and SincerelyChaos. I could not do this without you. Every comment, every correction you make is worth your weight in gold. All the kudos to you!
> 
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> Find me on tumblr as http://iriswallpaper.tumblr.com/


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